by Katey Lovell
I picked up my knitting, glad to have found a solution. If only everything else in life was as easy to fix.
The morning had passed in a tangle of wools and threads and buttons, as I’d finished knitting the tiny cream booties I’d been making for Nick and Chantel’s babies. I’d considered unravelling the wool, wondering if it was insensitive to make booties that might never be worn, but I needed to finish the project that had been started when we’d all been so full of excitement.
My stitches were too taut, the tension all wrong as my teardrops soaked into the palm-sized object I’d made, but as I said a quiet prayer as I threaded the satin ribbon through the loopholes I’d made, I was pleased I’d opted to finish them. We had to remain hopeful, for what is a world without hope?
When my phone rang, I was relieved it was Max rather than my mum. No news was most definitely good news.
“Max,” I said, as I accepted the call.
“Sophie. I was going to ring you when I got back last night, but I knew you’d worry if the phone rang in case it was your mum. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” I looked at the two pairs of little booties on the mantelpiece. “Worried, obviously. So many people I love are having a tough time at the moment.” I didn’t want the conversation to be a total downer, so I said, “What about you? What are you up to?”
“I wondered if you wanted to come to the fete at the hospital this afternoon? I understand if you’d rather be at home, but there’s usually a load of craft stalls there, the sort of thing you love.”
“Sounds great.” I smiled, my first proper smile all day. “But will there be a tombola too? I love a good tombola.”
“I expect so. I bet there’ll be all the old favourites: coconut shies, plate smashing, that kind of thing. And I’ve heard the cake stall is legendary.”
“Legendary cake sounds good.”
Max suggested we met at a coffee shop opposite the hospital. I was about to end the call, thinking we’d organised everything we needed to, but Max had one final message to give.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“If you change your mind and decide it’s too much, I’ll understand. Family comes first.”
“There’s nothing I can do that’ll change anything,” I said, my voice far more calm than I felt. “Better to be out and distracted rather than moping at home. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon,” he echoed.
When our call ended I headed back to the bathroom to look at my reflection. The water I’d dampened my hair with earlier had encouraged loose messy waves, and although the bags under my eyes were still there, they no longer looked as puffy. My skin was far from flawless, but instead of reaching for my foundation I applied a thin layer of day cream and a slick of tinted lip balm, forgoing all eye make-up.
I expected a downtrodden version of myself to be looking back at me, but my reflection didn’t look downtrodden. She looked like a woman who persevered.
I didn’t even change out of my comfy clothes, black yoga pants and a loose-fitted cerise T-shirt. They were clean enough, and Max wouldn’t care what I was wearing. Most importantly, I was happy wearing them. When you’re not feeling on top of your game you need to do whatever you can to make yourself feel better, and comfortable clothes were a form of self-care for me. If other people didn’t like it, then bully for them. Plus, Sundays were supposed to be lazy days. No one can be arsed on a Sunday.
A small flicker of pride sparked in my chest. Maybe I was growing up, after all, because I realised that while being loved by other people is special, loving yourself is the best love of all.
Fuelled by takeout coffee (without my usual blueberry muffin accompaniment because I was saving myself for the cakes Max had promised) the two of us hit the hospital fete. The warm weather had encouraged people to come out and support the event, with the sideshow stalls doing a roaring trade. Lucky dip barrels entertained easily-impressed children and swarms of people hovered around the WI stand of home-made preserves. Were there really so many jam fanatics in the North East?
“How are you really doing?” Max asked, as we passed the hook a duck stall. The paddling pool hadn’t even got any water in it, the rubber ducks sitting on the dry plastic base of the pool. A sign stated the lack of water was for health and safety reasons. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you last night.”
Max’s worried face was at odds with the pretty floral bunting strung out across the hospital grounds and the jaunty music being played by a band of steel drummers (who knew there were steel drummers in Newcastle? Not me, and I’d only lived here all my life), and smiled weakly. “I feel dreadful for my brother and his wife. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make everything okay.”
“Just be there for them. That’s all you can do.”
“I know.”
I sipped at my caramel latte. The sweetness of the syrup pricked my taste buds, but the bitter tang lingered.
“They’ll reach out if they need you, I’m sure. They know you’re thinking of them.”
Max slid his arm around my waist and it was as though his hand was on fire, burning my skin through my slobby clothes. I sizzled at his touch.
We continued to stroll, wordless, around the fete.
Max pointed out the tombola stall. The thing I love most about it is how there’s no skill required. A lot of it’s luck. You might win a bottle of Baileys, you might win a tin of soup, you might not even win at all. Tombolas are a metaphor for life, when you think about it.
“I’ll treat you,” he said, reaching for his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “I did promise.”
I picked six raffle tickets out of a cardboard box covered in stripy wrapping paper, desperately hoping that at least one of the tickets would end in a five or zero. We had no luck with the first five numbers. I felt like Charlie Bucket when his birthday Wonka bar didn’t contain a golden ticket. Unfolding the sixth and final ticket, I let out a squeal of delight.
“670! We’ve won!”
My eyes scanned the tables of arbitrary objects. It looked like they’d once been in numerical order, but had ended up higgledy-piggledy as the event had gone on. I couldn’t spot 670 anywhere.
“Can I help you, pet?” asked the older woman who was running the stall. She reminded me of my auntie Lynne; her foundation was too orange for her skin tone and the bright pink lipstick she was sporting had made its way onto her front tooth.
“I’m looking to see what I’ve won,” I said, showing her the winning ticket, “but I can’t see it on the table.”
The lady made her way to the section of the table that was home to the prizes labelled with tickets in the six hundreds, a puzzled look crossing her face when she realised nothing had a green 670 stuck to it.
“How strange,” she muttered, flashing the pink smudge on her teeth. “I could have sworn I saw that just five minutes ago.” She moved along the table, picking up items and turning them to examine the numbers on the tickets sellotaped to their front. “A-ha!” she said finally, with a triumphant smile as she held a candle in a jar aloft like a champion boxer holding a title belt above their head. “I knew I’d seen this somewhere. It was just hiding.”
She handed it over, and I instinctively pulled off the lid, sniffing the pink wax. It smelled of raspberry ripple ice cream.
“Thank you,” Max said.
“Yes, thank you,” I repeated, replacing the stopper.
We browsed the other nearby stalls – bric-a-brac (nothing appealing on offer), a second-hand book stall, a roll-the-penny sideshow that brought to mind church fetes from when I was a girl guide.
That’s when I noticed two tables next to each other displaying handicrafts. “Let’s go and look at the jewellery,” I said, although that did the crafter a disservice – there were a diverse mix of crafts on show.
The lady smiled as we approached, matching dimples appearing in each of her doughy cheeks as though she’d poked herself in the face with the knitti
ng needles that didn’t stop moving even when her focus shifted onto us.
The jewellery she was selling was cute – drop earrings with shimmering beads, adjustable rings with Scrabble tile letters attached to the band, old-fashioned friendship bracelets of knotted embroidery threads like Eve, Tawna and I used to make back in primary school. The decoupage photo frames were nice too, and the sets of doll’s clothes made with pretty printed fabric.
“You make some lovely things.”
“Thank you,” the lady said, flashing her dimples once more. My praise was enough to encourage her to put down her needles, the squarish white knitting hanging like a flag on a pole. Probably a back-piece of a cardigan, I thought.
“Anything you’ve particularly got your eye on?” she asked, and I was drawn to the Scrabble tile rings, the large black S bold against the creamy tile, the small “1” in the corner less dominant, but still there.
“I love the rings.”
“They’re always popular,” the woman said with a nod. “Kids and adults all love them.”
“How much are they?” Max enquired, picking up the S ring I’d been looking at.
The lady told us the price, and before I had time to argue, Max paid for the item and slipped it onto my finger. Third finger of my left hand, although I’m sure that was pure coincidence.
“You shouldn’t have.” I was mildly embarrassed at the attention – maybe even a show of affection – in front of a stranger. “I do love it though, thank you.”
I fully extended my fingers to get a better look at the ring, and the lady placed her palm across her heart and aahed. I felt my cheeks getting hot. I was probably as pink as my hoodie.
“Aren’t you two the sweetest couple.” She beamed, picking up her needles once more. “Enjoy the rest of your Sunday, won’t you?”
We both smiled and nodded, and I mumbled a thank you as we moved to the next table. The crafts weren’t as high-quality, and although the bookmarks and keyrings on display were eye-catching, closer inspection showed they’d been hurried. There were a few loose ends and unsightly blobs of glue where the maker had been heavy-handed.
“Anything you like the look of?” Max asked.
“I don’t think so.” I could make better myself, and the woman behind the table looked miserable as sin as she hid behind a pinboard covered in home-made badges to take a puff of her e-cigarette. She wasn’t subtle, but even if she had been, the sickly-sweet smell would have given her away.
As we moved from the smoking woman, fighting against the tickle of a cough building in my throat, I thought of my craft stash. The pleasure crafting brought me, the joy of sourcing perfect resources for a project… I wanted more of that in my life.
“Do you remember I told you I love making things?” I blurted, then blushed again as Max stopped walking. “Like the things on those stalls,” I added.
“I know what making things means,” he teased. “And yes, I remember. Are you any good?”
I looked down at the ring on my finger, where the tile skimmed my knuckle. “Yeah. I’m really good, actually. I’ve been thinking about what you said about doing it professionally.”
If he found my comment big-headed he didn’t show it.
“Brilliant. You should. Maybe you could show me some of the things you’ve made sometime.” His eyes shone as they connected with mine.
“Maybe,” I replied coyly, although I’d need to give the house a deep-clean if Max was going to pay a visit. No one ever came to my place except Tawna and Eve, and they didn’t count. Over the years they’d become blind to my borderline hoarding, and although my selling sprees had cleared some clutter my house would never be considered tidy.
We pottered around for a while, bumping into Oz and Isla who encouraged me to guess the name of the teddy (I plumped for Keegan. The teddy was a panda, and everyone knows black and white means the Magpies, the mighty Newcastle United. The other option was Alan, as in Shearer, but someone else had already nabbed that).
“Feeling lucky?” asked a suited man with a clipboard. He looked way too formal for a fete. I must have given him a bemused look, because he said, “Because you were having a go on ‘guess the name of the bear’. We’re an international company specialising in medical training. Our UK headquarters is moving from London and we’re going to be based right here in Newcastle. We’re already establishing links with the hospital, including pledging to donate a percentage of our annual profits to the hospital charity funds. All we’re asking is for people to sign up to our newsletter, and for each person that signs up we’re donating a pound to the hospital charity. We promise not to flood your inbox, but we will keep you up to date with company news and the overall total we have donated to the cause. Also, one lucky winner will be selected at random to win five thousand pounds.”
“Just for signing up?”
“Just for signing up,” the man confirmed.
“Go on then.” Max took the Biro from the man and wrote down his email address. I nosily tried to read it, but struggled, because not only was it upside down, but he was left-handed, so as he moved the pen across the page he hid what he’d written. I’d always had a thing for left-handers. I don’t know why.
“I will too. It is for charity, after all.” My writing looked loopy and childlike under Max’s jagged scrawl.
The event was drawing to a close, the crowd thinning out, but I wasn’t ready for my time with Max to be over. He’d been a wonderful distraction from worrying about Chantel and the twins, exactly what I’d needed, so when he suggested going for a drink at a nearby pub, I jumped at the chance.
“Have you been here before?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“It’s nothing special,” he said, almost apologetically, “just a chain pub that does cheap food, but the beer garden’s nice.”
The garden at the back was a large expanse of grass surrounded by a stone wall covered in pretty yellow roses. There was a bouncy castle, popular with the children who jumped enthusiastically as their parents enjoyed a drink and a chat in the sunshine, and a group of kids were kicking a ball around, using jumpers for goalposts.
“It’s fine,” I assured him. “It’s nice.”
We bought our drinks – I paid, it was the least I could do – and found a vacant bench outside. The beer garden was busy enough to have a buzz of life, but not busy enough to be loud, exactly what’s needed for escapist Sunday evening drinking.
“Let me give you some money for the drinks.” Max flipped open his wallet and offered me a note. “I’m the one who invited you out, remember.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can stretch to a round of drinks.”
I sipped at my wine. It was drier than I’d normally go for, but not unpleasant.
“That’s not the point. Coming to the pub was my suggestion, and I want to treat you.” He pressed the note into the palm of my hand. “Please?”
“Okay.” I folded it into my purse. “Thank you.”
“There was a time I wouldn’t have been able to have done that. I racked up some pretty crazy debts in my early twenties. All that freedom and no concept of money, and the bank extended my overdraft without question, gave me credit cards and loans when I had no way of paying them back other than a part-time job in a twenty-four-hour supermarket two nights a week.”
My head whirred at the familiarity of the situation and it took me a few seconds to realise I was holding my breath. “But you’ve paid them all off now?”
“I made the final payment in January,” he said, a smile of pride playing out on his lips. “I didn’t think the day would ever come, but when it did it was the best feeling. I’d never have been able to do it if I hadn’t moved back home though. It’s one good thing that’s come out of Dad being ill.”
“It goes to show things do work out for the best in the end.” I took another sip of my drink. “There was a time when I was living beyond my means too. I’ve changed though. I’m paying back what I owe.”
There was no judgement on his face, and at first I wondered if he’d heard me at all, but then he said, “How are you finding it?”
“Some days it’s fine, but other days I feel like it’s unfair. There are celebrities in magazines on exotic holidays saying they’ve earned a week in paradise because they work hard, but so do I. My wages aren’t great.” I smiled wryly. “I’m bottom of the food chain at my work.”
“You’ve taken the first step though, and that’s the hardest bit. It took me a long time to realise how out of control my spending was.”
“Tell me about it.” I inwardly cringed remembering how much importance I used to put on wearing designer labels, colouring my hair and changing the three “c”s in my living room seasonally to fit in with the current trends. Curtains, cushions and candles don’t sound like enormous expenses, but replacing them as frequently as I had been was unnecessary. “It’s surprising what a difference little changes make.”
“Have you started shopping at Aldi?”
“Yes!”
“Their chocolate changed my life,” he said seriously. “A quarter of the price of the brand I used to buy, but just as nice.”
“I used to be really snobby about where I shopped,” I confessed. “I don’t know why, because no one would have known where I’d bought things from.”
“I bet you’re one of those people who takes a Waitrose bag with you even when you’re shopping elsewhere,” he kidded.
