The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  I take off my coat and saunter through to the kitchen. After dumping my bag on the counter, I flick on the kettle before reaching up to the top shelf of the cupboard to retrieve the biscuit tin, stashed up high in a vague attempt to curtail my sugar addiction, but it never seems to work. Well, it did for a bit, when I had a wedding to get ready for, but not now. I choose a Jammie Dodger and bite into its gooey sweet loveliness before firing up my laptop and typing Jennifer Ford absconded in to Google.

  The kettle boils so I swiftly make a mug of Wispa hot chocolate and it’s just reaching the crackly, popping stage of the stirring process when an article posted just a few hours ago appears on the screen.

  A young mum who went on a spending spree after a bungling council official accidentally deposited £42,000 in her bank account has disappeared. Police are trying to trace Jennifer Ford, who was last seen boarding a plane to Las Vegas dressed in designer gear including £350 Gucci shades and seven-inch Louboutin stacked heels.

  With sweaty palms, I swig the hot chocolate, scalding the roof of my mouth in the process. Ouch! I scroll down further. And there she is. Jennifer Ford. My mouth drains of saliva. It’s her. Definitely her. The woman whose claim I processed. Even with her new, superimposed, here’s-what-she-might-look-like-now picture, complete with long, butter-blonde hair extensions, which the article then details were acquired from a ‘top salon in London’s swanky West End, mainly frequented by celebrities’. Oh good-o, I shall rest easy armed with this important piece of trivia. Not. But part of me is thinking: good on you, Jennifer, I’m not sure I could resist such an enormous windfall, but then … what about the consequences? Surely there are laws about spending money that isn’t yours, even if it has been paid into your very own bank account? I gulp, and try to ignore the hammering of my heart as I speed-read on.

  A council spokesman has vowed to conduct a full investigation to ensure the bungling employee is identified and reprimanded for irresponsibly giving away such a huge sum of taxpayer’s money.

  And there, right in the middle of my laptop screen, is a picture of my boss, Mr Banerjee, with his arms crossed and a furious look on his face. He’s even wearing his serious black turban, and not his usual, colourful orange everyday one.

  A wave of nausea crashes right through me and I actually think I might be sick. The kitchen sways slightly so I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. What am I going to do? This has to be the cock-up to end all cock-ups, and I should know – I’ve had a few, and that’s not including the wedding fiasco. Since 4 May I’ve been reprimanded several times at work by Gina, the team leader, mainly for trawling the internet looking at knitting websites as a way to relieve the tedium of my boring job. The plan had been for me to marry Luke and then work from home – it was even his idea – because, he said, it made sense if we were to start a family. I’d be self-employed; I’d get to embrace my passion for knitting and needlecraft and see if I could make a proper go of it. I would take orders online at first and then, if it took off, I’d look for a shop, somewhere on-trend – like nappy valley, aka Clapham, where there are loads of people who love to create one-off masterpieces.

  I had it all mapped out. But that dream has gone now, along with my heart, which shattered into a trillion tiny fragments on that day in the church. I swallow the last of the hot chocolate in an attempt to shake off the pity party for one and delve into my bag to retrieve my knitting. I love making things – knitting, needlecraft, quilting, crocheting and patchwork – when dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. I’ll just finish this tea cosy. Yes, it will calm me down while I come up with a plan of action to get myself out of this latest cock-up, because I have a horrible, sinking feeling that I’m the bungling employee. And if I am, then I could very well be facing the sack right before Christmas, because there are only so many warnings one can have before it just gets ridiculous. Not that I transfer the actual payments into the claimants’ bank accounts; no, somebody else does that part of the process, for security apparently, which is a bit ironic. I process the claims, and calculate the payment amount due but with my mind not really being on the job recently, perhaps I did inadvertently add on a couple of extra zeros. It could happen. So easily!

  I dart through the archway into my tiny lounge and slump down in the armchair. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNITONEPURLONEKNITONEPURLONE! And on it goes, faster and faster and faster and faster until the prancing reindeer tea cosy is finished in record-breaking time, and my hands have fused themselves into the shape of an ancient Chinese woman’s lotus feet.

  I take Rudolph into the boxroom and place him on the bookshelf next to the others. Twenty-seven tea cosies in total. Not to mention all the other shelves housing the numerous bobble hats, cardies, scarves, mittens and jumpers. My boxroom is jam-packed with knitted goods. But what can I say? I’ve had a lot of dark thoughts, and all of the sad feels, recently …

  I try the key in the ignition one more time and say a little prayer, but it’s no use – the Clio has definitely died. It’s going nowhere. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let out a little whimper. Basil, sitting upright on the passenger seat beside me, tilts his head to one side in sympathy.

  ‘So what now then?’ I ask, giving him a sideways grimace before pulling the furry hood of my parka up over my crimson-and-white Fair Isle bobble hat. It’s perishing cold out here, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve come up with a plan and there’s no backing out now.

  Keep calm and carry yarn.

  That’s what I embroidered onto the front of my craft bag, so taking my own advice, in addition to a massive breath, I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab my suitcase from the back seat (you can’t be too careful around here with all the street crime), and head back into the flat to call a taxi to take me to the station. We’ll travel by train. It’ll be fun, and I’m sure it can’t be that far to Tindledale. And I probably should call Cher to let her know that I’m on my way. I’ve already rung Mum to give her Cher’s number and tell her that Basil and I are going on a mini-break for a few days; she’ll only worry if she can’t get hold of me, and she was delighted to hear that I’m venturing out and ‘dipping my toe back in’ … Hmm. Mum also said to give Cher her love.

  Of course, I didn’t mention the cock-up to end all cock-ups at work and that I’m actually running away because right now I just can’t deal with any more stress. Only for a long weekend, mind you, but enough time to give myself some space to figure out what to do and come up with a strategy. It’s a chance to breathe, and I don’t feel as if I’ve done that properly since the ‘wedding that never happened’. Besides, Mum will only panic about everyone finding out that I’m the bungling employee. Plus, I don’t want Sasha knowing. I feel so betrayed by her and the last thing I want is her knowing that I’ve messed up at work and could potentially lose my job too, in addition to the boyfriend that she stole from me. She’s always wanted what I’ve had; as children she’d want the toy that I’d been given, even though it was exactly the same as hers, and she’d make me swap. As we’ve got older, I’ve often felt that she thinks she’s better than me, more successful, just because she travels and has a full-on social life. It’s well known within the family that she thinks my job and passion for knitting and needlecraft is dull – ‘provincial’ is what she said on one of the rare occasion we were last all together – and I think she secretly feels the same way about our parents too, in their bungalow in the cul-de-sac in Staines – they and it are just not glamorous or exciting enough for Sasha.

  Not that Mum and Dad are in constant communication with her; in fact, since May the fourth they’ve been extremely diplomatic and have kept her very much at arm’s length, which I guess is fairly easy given that Sasha spends most of her time gallivanting around, organising spectacular events for her fabulously famous and wealthy clients in places like Dubai, and not forgetting her annual charity event here in the UK – the Christmas hunt ball – because sh
e likes to ‘give a little back’ as she says, to the horse community that helped launch her career. It’s how she came to be such a successful event planner in the first place: she started out by organising pony shows and polo parties for well-heeled people who recommended her to their even wealthier friends, who make up her glittering client portfolio. And now she’s being fabulous all over the place with my ex-fiancé in tow, no doubt. Well, good riddance to them, I rally, mustering up a modicum of resilience. I wonder if Sasha has discovered Luke’s penchant for farting under the duvet yet?

  The Duck & Puddle number rings for what seems like an eternity before I hang up – I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s just after 7 p.m. – Cher is obviously busy and I imagine the bar area is noisy so maybe nobody can hear the phone. I try her mobile, but it doesn’t even ring, it goes straight through to the ‘person can’t take your call …’ message. Anyway, it’ll be fine; Cher said to visit, so it’ll be a nice surprise for her and I’ve already called work – well, luckily Gina’s mobile went straight to voice mail too, so I left a message to say that since I have a migraine coming on and quite possibly a temperature, but I haven’t actually confirmed this as I don’t have a thermometer (Gina can be very pedantic), it was looking highly unlikely that I’d make it into work tomorrow. Not strictly a lie, as I really do have a headache, an anxiety one, and I’m starting to sweat in this furry hood and bobble hat. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that right now I’m one very hot mess!

  *

  An hour later, the train to Tindledale is just about to depart – the last direct one, luckily, which arrives at 10.39 p.m. After that, you have to go to Market Briar, the nearest big town, and get a taxi or a lift on a tractor apparently, ‘so don’t be planning any big late nights out while you’re there’, is what the man in the ticket office chortled when I told him where we were heading.

  Basil settles at my feet after giving up on trying to snuggle on the seat beside me. A guy in a black duffel coat and a grey beanie hat (definitely machine-knitted) is sitting by the window in the bank of seats adjacent to me, reading a newspaper; he looks up and gives me a courteous smile. I smile back and instantly notice his kind-looking emerald eyes behind black-framed glasses which accentuate the stubbly dark beard and curly hair peeping out from under the sides of his hat. This is only a recent thing, noticing men. After being in a relationship for five years with a man that I was certain I’d marry, it still feels weird looking at other guys in a snog/marry/avoid way, as Cher would say. I guess, it just isn’t something I’m used to; I really loved Luke, so it didn’t ever cross my mind to notice other men, and then, after everything that happened … well, let’s just say that it’s taking me time to reprogram my head to an ‘I’m single’ status.

  ‘Basil!’ I yell as he darts across the carriage and goes to swipe the guy’s Costa cake from a napkin on the table. I dive-bomb Basil just in time. ‘I’m so sorry, anyone would think he was starving, which he certainly isn’t,’ I say, grinning apologetically to the guy. I grab Basil’s collar and swiftly pull him back. Luckily, the guy laughs and shrugs it off, before moving the cake to a safer spot and lifting his newspaper back up.

  A few minutes later, an older lady, sixty-something perhaps, arrives through the door of the adjoining carriage and sits opposite me.

  ‘Ah, he’s a fine-looking lad. What’s his name?’ she asks in a country accent as she glances down at my feet. ‘And what a superb coat he has on.’

  ‘Thanks, he’s called Basil.’ I smile, straightening Basil’s festive red knitted body warmer before unzipping my parka. Basil lifts his head on hearing his name so I give him a quick stroke. He laps it up before resting his chin back on my right foot.

  ‘Well I never, that was my late husband’s name, God rest his soul, and I haven’t heard it in a while, I must say! Is it significant to you too?’

  ‘Um, yes, I’m called Sybs, well, Sybil really. My friend, Cher, she came up with his name on account of—’

  ‘Oh yes, I know it! From the TV series, Fawlty Towers, it was so funny. Basiiiiiiiiiiil,’ she bellows, taking me by surprise. ‘That’s what his wife, Sybil, used to holler – it was a standing joke with my Basil and I. He always laughed when I did it to him.’ Her eyes close momentarily as she reminisces.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say gently.

  ‘Oh, thank you, love, but it was a very long time ago and he certainly had a good innings. I’m on my second husband now, met him a year ago on a coach tour to Portofino. Colin was the driver,’ she chuckles, ‘and fourteen years younger than me. I’m Dolly, by the way.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Dolly.’ I smile, loving her zest for life, and Dolly chuckles and winks before loosening her coat and removing her fur hat.

  ‘You have the right idea, Sybs, it’s mighty warm in this carriage, that heater is churning out the hot air.’ She frowns, pointing at the panel beside us.

  ‘It sure is,’ I say, slipping off the parka.

  ‘Cor! That’s a beauty. Knit it yourself?’ She nods at my Christmas jumper.

  ‘Oh, um, yes I did. Thank you!’ I beam and cast a glance down at the fleece-lined chunky red knit with Ho Ho Ho emblazoned across the front in sparkly yarn, and each Ho a different colour. The heater in the Clio is so temperamental that I wasn’t taking any chances on freezing to death during the long drive to Tindledale and this is the warmest jumper I’ve ever made, but then, when the taxi turned up right away, I didn’t have time to get changed into something more suitable for a steamed-up train journey.

  ‘You have a real gift. I could never get on with knitting.’ Dolly shakes her head and I smile politely, unable to imagine a life without knitting. Knitting has never let me down: it soothes me, comforts me, excites me, calms me – it’s multifaceted and it means so many things to me. It may sound silly, but all of my knitting projects have memories attached too: I can swing a silver pashmina around my shoulders, knitted on holiday in Ibiza, and it instantly puts me right there on the sandy beach under a parasol with Cher nodding her head along to the tunes on her iPod, us laughing together, sipping sangria and feeling carefree and happy. This was long before I met Luke, or Sasha betrayed me. ‘So where are you off to?’ Dolly asks.

  ‘I’m going to surprise a friend who’s just moved to a village called Tindledale. Do you know it?’

  ‘I most certainly do. My Basil was postman there for a while and his father before him. Colin and I live in Stoneley, four stops before yours.’

  ‘Ooh, you might be able to help me with something then, please?’ I ask, eagerly.

  ‘Always happy to help if I can, dear. What is it?’ Dolly smiles kindly.

  ‘I left home in a bit of hurry and haven’t brought a housewarming gift for my friend, I don’t suppose you can recommend a shop where I can buy something nice for her? I was thinking a candle or some Belgian truffles perhaps.’ Cher isn’t really one for knitted garments, otherwise I’d have brought her a cardy, or a tea cosy or two. I managed to grab a bottle of red wine from my fridge, and it’s almost full, but it’s hardly the same as a proper present, especially when Cher already has a pub full of alcohol. Dolly laughs.

  ‘Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve actually been in Tindledale, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t anywhere that sells candles, certainly not the fancy fragranced ones that you’d be after. You might get some white Price’s household ones in the village store – they always used to keep a few boxes in stock for the power cuts,’ she says knowingly. ‘And as for chocolates, they won’t be Belgian, but I’m sure you’d get a nice bar of Fry’s Peppermint Cream in there too. They have quite a range in their small supermarket section – through the archway next to the post office counter.’

  ‘Lovely. I’ll head there right away,’ I say, not wanting to be rude, but I can’t exactly turn up with a bar of Fry’s chocolate. Cher will think I’ve really lost the plot.

  ‘Oh, it won’t be open this time of night, dear. The village store closes at four in
the winter. You could try the pub though; just go to the hatch in the snug, they have a little shop that has sweets, crisps, cigarettes, milk, magazines, eggs, bread, firelighters, logs, lighter fuel … that kind of thing. There’s an honesty box so take what you like and leave the money in the bowl.’ I smile again – I can just see Cher’s face if I buy her a bag of crisps as a present from her own shop. And who ever heard of a pub with an honesty box? At the fried chicken place on the corner of my street they have a metal grill that you have to pay through at the time of order, and they don’t take notes over a fiver in case they’re forgeries.

  *

  The train pulls into Stoneley and I can barely keep my eyes open after chatting to Dolly for most of the journey. I stifle a yawn and will myself to keep awake.

  ‘Oh dear! You need a good night’s sleep.’ Hmm, this is true – I haven’t slept properly in months. ‘But not far now,’ Dolly says warmly, buttoning up her coat and giving Basil a parting tickle under his chin.