The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Yes, I’d really like to have it done before I leave on Sunday, to repay the favour if I can. Besides, I love knitting, and it feels a bit weird not having a project on the go.’ I had tried salvaging the lovely little Christmas pudding that I brought with me but even after soaking it in the bath in my en suite overnight, it’s still a ruined mess.

  ‘Well, this I can understand. Knitting is like oxygen, a necessity, isn’t it?’ Hettie’s smile is back in place and I nod fervently, not having ever really talked to anyone about the emotional complexities of knitting before. ‘And some people have a cup of tea when they need cheering up, but I find there’s nothing better than the comforting, repetitive click-clack of the needles and the feel of the wool looping over my index finger to make everything feel alright. It’s been a wonderful tonic for me over the years.’ And the faraway look returns in her eyes.

  ‘Ah, yes, me too,’ I say, wondering if I’ll be like Hettie when I’m in my eighties. I always had it in mind that I’d be surrounded by grandchildren. Luke and I would have a big rowdy family of our own; that was the plan, well, just my plan, as it now turns out. Not Luke’s plan at all – with Sasha maybe, but I can’t see it myself as she’s not the settling-down-with-babies type at all. I put a smile on my face. Monday! That’s what I promised myself; I have until then to ignore the reality of my life and enjoy being here in Tindledale, living in blissful ignorance. I must try harder to stop picking over the carcass that is my dismal, failed life. I take a deep breath as if to clear my head.

  ‘I could help if you like?’ Hettie offers. ‘We could knit the pullover together, the hat and gloves too; we might even squeeze in a scarf if we get a move on and if I knit the back and a sleeve while you do the front and the other sleeve. Or I can do the front with the pudding pattern on if you prefer? But you might be quicker as my eyesight tends to fade in the evening which can make reading patterns problematic.’ Her eyes are dancing with delight now. ‘I’m a very fast knitter though, comes from years of practice,’ she adds proudly. ‘If we pull together, I reckon we can easily get it all knitted in time. Can you knit fast?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say honestly, as I’ve never actually timed myself or done a comparison.

  ‘Good. Then what do you say to a good knit and natter?’ she eyes me eagerly.

  ‘Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?’ My smile broadens. ‘Yes please, that would be wonderful. If you’re really sure and if you have the time – I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I say, surreptitiously taking another look at her cardies which I’m guessing she made herself. They may be old and worn, but they’re knitted beautifully so I’m sure her half of the jumper will be superb.

  ‘That settles it then,’ Hettie says, grinning like a much, much younger person. A teenage girl, almost. It’s incredible. And it lifts my spirit to see the transformation, to see her looking so happy. It makes me feel happy too.

  ‘Now let’s choose some wool and needles, or do you have your own?’ Hettie says, her voice all bubbly with excitement. ‘I like to keep to the same ones,’ she adds enthusiastically, before practically skipping over to the other side of the shop and flinging open a wooden cantilever sewing box. All of a sudden, it’s as if she has a new lease of life, a purpose. And so have I. It’ll be fun to have a knitting buddy, and it’s not like I have very much else to do over the weekend, with Cher being away on her course. I can come back here early tomorrow morning and Hettie and I can knit the Christmas jumper together, and on Sunday too – two clear days should be plenty – and I’ll get the last train to give us as much time as possible, but with us both knitting, we’re bound to have it done in record time and certainly before I have to leave.

  My heart lifts at the prospect of a mini knit off and I make a mental note to pop into the village store later on after swinging by Tindledale Bookshop to get a sneak peek at Adam, aka the mysterious man from the train, to see if I can get some nice biscuits and maybe some chocolate for us to munch on while we knit tomorrow, Hettie definitely strikes me as the kind of lady that might enjoy a party ring biscuit or two, or perhaps a bar of Fry’s Peppermint Cream.

  ‘Wow! Now that is some collection,’ I say, making big eyes as Hettie reaches into the sewing box. Inside are a trillion knitting needles, or so it seems, in every size imaginable.

  ‘What size do we need for the Christmas pullover?’ she asks and I quickly scan the pattern. It’s pre-metric of course.

  ‘Fours,’ I say, figuring she won’t have the six millimetre metric equivalent. Her collection looks ancient.

  ‘Some of these belonged to my mother,’ she says, confirming my assumption as she lifts a bundle of cream-coloured bone knitting needles high up into the air like a prize. If I’m not mistaken, they are probably worth a very tidy sum. I saw some just like these on eBay during one of my secret online sessions at work, after perusing the Ravelry knitting community website when I should probably have been updating a spreadsheet or something equally mind-numbing. Hettie leaves the bundle of needles on a table and checks the pattern. She rummages some more. ‘Here we are – my favourite size fours. Would you like a pair too?’

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ I say, taking the needles from her. ‘I only have three and three quarter ones with me,’ I say, and they still have part of a wine-stained Christmas pudding dangling from them. She creases her forehead, obviously trying to remember the conversion. ‘Sorry, size nines,’ I add. ‘And we need seven balls of chunky scarlet wool, and—’

  ‘Follow me.’ And she hurries back out to the kitchen-cum-sitting-room where Basil is snoring in an armchair. Loudly. Very loudly.

  ‘Oh no, I’m so sorry, I’m trying to train him off furniture.’ I push the pattern under my arm and leap forward to remove Basil but she places her hand on my back.

  ‘Let him sleep, dear,’ she whispers over my shoulder, as if he’s an actual human baby and not an exceedingly cheeky hound. ‘I’m sure he’s exhausted after that long walk from the station last night. Lord Lucan said you were puffing like a steam train when you staggered into the bus shelter,’ she chuckles and I shake my head, wondering what else she knows. So news really does travel fast in Tindledale; at this rate the whole village will know all of my business before the weekend is out. But to be honest, I’m not sure I mind; it’s not something I’ve experienced before and back home in London it might feel intrusive, but not here in Tindledale. No, it feels nice, in a warm, friendly, embracing way. It’s like I belong – and isn’t that what everyone wants?

  ‘If you’re sure it’s OK …’ I say, and to my surprise, Hettie grabs a child-size knitted granny patch blanket from a pile by the door and gently tucks it around Basil who stirs for a second, does a massive yawn and has a good stretch before settling back down with his chin nestling over the edge of the blanket. And I swear he now has a big Cheshire-cat grin of satisfaction on his cheeky dog face.

  ‘Right, now let’s see what we have in here.’ Hettie pulls open a door to a cavernous cupboard under the stairs and I gasp. It’s a treasure trove. New wool, yarn, whatever you want to call it, balls and balls and balls of it arranged on shelves in neat, jaunty piles ranging from one end of the rainbow prism to the other. And there must enough here to knit a trillion jumpers at least, or so it seems. But why is it hidden away in a cupboard when it should be out there on display in the shop? Nobody is going to buy the faded old stuff that’s currently languishing on those rickety shelves. ‘Hold out your arms.’ I do as I’m told and Hettie selects seven balls of the richest scarlet yarn I’ve ever seen, before counting them out into my waiting arms.

  ‘And a few extra for luck,’ she chuckles, plopping four more balls on top of the pile. ‘If we make good progress, we’ll be needing these to make a start on the gloves and scarf.’ She dives back into the cupboard.

  ‘Good idea,’ I say, getting into the swing of things and enjoying her enthusiasm. ‘And please let me know how much this all comes too,’ I add.

  ‘Thank you de
ar,’ Hettie says from inside the cupboard. ‘What’s next?’ she puffs after pulling herself back out and sweeping a stray tendril of hair away from her flushed face.

  ‘Um …’ I point with my chin to the pattern still under my arm. Hettie slips the pattern free and holds it out as far as she can before bringing it right up to her nose.

  ‘It’s no use. Blasted eyesight, I’ll have to get my varifocals,’ she tuts, seemingly cross with herself. ‘Now, I wonder where I left them …’ She casts a glance around the room and so do I, but it’s no use, I can’t see her glasses anywhere and it could take ages to hunt for them in amongst all the stuff in the shop.

  ‘Not to worry, we’ll work it out together. If you can hold the pattern out in front of me, I’ll read out what we need and then you can load me up some more,’ I say. And she does. ‘Oops, can you lift it up a little bit higher, please,’ I laugh, and she goes up on tiptoe before moving from side to side so I can see over the wool mountain under my chin. Wow! I’m super impressed at just how sprightly she still is; I struggle to stand on tiptoe for any length of time and I’m less than half her age. ‘Perfect. OK, we need …’ I pause to scan the pattern, ‘one ball of chocolate brown for the Christmas pudding, a ball of white for the pouring cream and a gorgeous emerald green for the sprig of holly that goes on top of the pudding.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. Coming right up.’ After rummaging in the cupboard some more, Hettie batches up the balls and then loads them into my arms before snapping the cupboard door tight shut. ‘That should do it,’ she says with a flourish before straightening up and turning to face me with her hands planted on her slim hips. ‘I can’t wait to get started. You know, this reminds me of when I was a young girl with my mother – we often used to do knitting projects together. We did sweaters for the whole Tindledale village cricket team one time and they looked truly dazzling out there on the village green. And I think they won the county cup that year. It was the summer of 1947 – a gloriously hot one it was too – and we sat in the garden with jugs of cider and punnets of plump strawberries from the fields over at Cherry Tree Orchards. The farmer used to charge three and six and you could pick as much as you want.’

  ‘Ah, that sounds amazing,’ I say, happy to hear about the olden days. ‘And Pete mentioned the orchard last night. So it’s been around for a very long time then?’ I can’t believe I just said that! She’s going to think I’m so rude. But much to my surprise, Hettie just throws her head back and laughs.

  ‘I like you,’ she says very directly, after composing herself. ‘You remind me of myself when I was a girl, with your obvious passion for knitting. And that was a very, veeeery long time ago.’ She chuckles some more, shaking her head and prodding me gently in the ribs. I let out a little sigh of relief on realising that she’s teasing me and quickly decide that now might be the time to broach the subject of her tired-looking yarn section in the rickety old shelving unit, so I take a deep breath and hope for the best, really not wanting to offend her.

  ‘Can I ask you a question, please?’ I start tentatively.

  ‘Of course, but let’s walk and talk so we can get started on the knitting. We can sit upstairs – much more comfortable up there. Follow me.’ And she heads towards the stairs.

  ‘OK. Um … Why do you have all that gorgeous new yarn hidden away?’ I say really quickly as if to lessen the impact. She stops moving and turns around to face me.

  ‘The wool? In there?’ I nod as she points back into the kitchen-cum-sitting-room. ‘That’s the stock cupboard, dear. It’s where I keep the good stuff so that when the old wool is all sold I can replenish the shelves. It’s called stock rotation,’ she informs me earnestly.

  ‘I see. But what if the old stuff doesn’t sell? It seems such a pity not to show off the lovely new yarn,’ I half mumble, wondering if I’m pushing my luck, but to my surprise she doesn’t miss a beat.

  ‘Hmm, good point.’ She tilts her head to one side and cups her chin in her hand as if considering my point very prudently. ‘I’ve never really thought about it like that before. The shop was my mother’s before it became mine and that’s just the way it’s always been. Where do you suggest I would put the old stuff if we were to display the new stock? You know, business has been so slow these last few years and I keep meaning to have a sort out but it just seems like such a big task …’ Her voice trails off and the confusion from earlier, over the lunch tray, reappears. And then her face fills with alarm as she spots something on a nearby table. I follow her eye line and see that it’s a pile of post. She grabs the papers and stuffs them underneath a cushion. Instinctively, and not wanting to add to her embarrassment, I pretend not to have noticed.

  ‘Well, I could give you a hand if you like,’ I carry on, carefully, not wanting her to feel that I’m trying to take over. She stares me straight in the eye as if sizing me up. ‘I’d really enjoy the opportunity, I’ve always dreamt of having a haberdashery shop just like yours, so I’d love to help out if I can. Honestly, you’d be doing me a favour,’ I grin, pushing my chin out over the yarn to keep it from rolling away on to the floor. And it’s true. Stepping inside here and envisioning just how glorious it could be is like seeing my dream come alive. She looks anxious, but then her face softens. ‘Only if that’s OK, of course,’ I quickly add. Silence follows apart from the roar of Basil snoring.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ she says eventually, still eyeing me shrewdly.

  ‘Well, let’s see it as a partnership: you’re helping me with the jumper, so I’ll help you to, um …’ I pause to pick my words carefully. ‘Rotate the stock!’ I finish, thinking: I can clear the old wool off the shelves, empty the cupboard of the new stuff and store the old balls in there. Easy. Ideally, they need binning but I reckon that might just be a step too far for her right now. Little acorns and all that, and then, when she’s comfortable with me helping out, I can make a start on clearing the rest of the shop. I’m sure I won’t take much to tidy the place up and make it look a whole lot fresher and brighter for her.

  ‘But will you have time?’ Her wrinkled forehead creases some more. ‘What with the knitting project to do by Sunday?’

  ‘I’ll make time. Besides, I have you to help me with the knitting now,’ I smile, letting the wool and needles drop from my arms into a nearby wire shopping basket before pulling my parka off and rolling up the sleeves of Ruby’s blouse. ‘Come on, you’ll see. It’ll be fun.’ I move towards Basil. ‘But first, let’s sort out some chairs to put in the shop – we don’t want to be sitting upstairs and end up missing a customer. Plus, if we position them near the window we’ll be like a living advertisement for knitting, which is bound to entice customers in to see your lovely new stock!’ I add, already on a roll, feeling excited and exhilarated and optimistic – something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  ‘Dear, can I tell you a secret?’ she asks, keeping her eyes on the floor.

  ‘What’s that, then?’ I prompt, making sure my smile stays in place. I’m so pleased that she’s up for having a sort out but there’s clearly something serious bothering her, so whatever it is, I hope I can make it better for her.

  ‘I don’t really have many customers these days, apart from the odd rambler who bumbles in by chance, and to be honest with you, if things don’t pick up soon then I’m afraid I may have to close the shop and move away. There’s such a lot to keep up with, what with the house and the payments for the …’ Her voice fades. She’s wringing her hands and looking really distressed now, almost as if she’s shared something she shouldn’t have. I stop moving for a moment.

  ‘And don’t you want to do that?’ I ask. ‘To close the shop, and move away?’ I clarify, feeling so sad for her.

  ‘No, I don’t. I want to die here at home,’ she says adamantly. ‘But not for a while yet, I hope,’ she adds, ‘and when the time comes I don’t want it to be in a strange place where my last moment of pleasure is sipping stewed tea from a child’s beaker.’ She shakes her head stoicall
y, but I spot the flash of fear in her eyes and I’m horrified that this is what she has to worry about. Oh God.

  ‘Well, in that case we had better try to change all that,’ I nod firmly, figuring it best to keep up a jovial, positive attitude to spur us both on. Hettie does a half-smile and sags just a little in relief.

  ‘I’m so pleased you popped in,’ she says softly.

  After gently waking Basil, much to his disgust, I drag the faded old armchair from the kitchen-cum-sitting-room and out onto the shop floor. A few minutes and a bit of shifting around later, and I’ve got the chair in a perfect cosy-looking angle by the window. Hettie folds a pile of old blankets on the floor as a makeshift bed for Basil, who after licking her hand by way of thanks, hops on and is snoring again within seconds. I shake my head; he really is the laziest dog in the whole of the canine kingdom.

  ‘Here, we can use this chair too.’ Hettie, getting into the swing of things, lifts an enormous pile of old satin-quilted eiderdowns up to reveal an Art Deco design armchair in a beautiful buttery brown leather. ‘You’d better sit in it because if I do I’ll never get up again. No, it’s far too low for me,’ she laughs, her eyes dancing like a child’s and for a second I get another glorious glimpse of the girl she once was, young and pretty and carefree – and quite possibly a little bit mischievous as she gives me a cheeky wink then sweeps a pile of old bobbins from a low table and into a bin before rubbing her hands together very vigorously. ‘I’ve been meaning to do that for such a long time. And will you look at the state of them? Most of these don’t even have any thread left at all. Why on earth are they still here?’ she says, tutting and pulling a face as she retrieves a bobbin, inspects it and then tosses it back into the bin. ‘Now, would you be a love and move this table into the gap between those two chairs for me? We’ll be needing somewhere to put all our gubbins – tea, glasses for me, and I always like to have a hanky to hand and a packet of strong mints – they help me knit faster.’ She does a big belly laugh and it really touches my heart to see her looking so happy, and in such contrast to the bleakness emanating from her just a little while ago when I first stepped inside her lovely House of Haberdashery.