The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  I place the picture frame on the trestle table in front of us.

  ‘Hettie, it’s very generous of you, but I really can’t take the picture.’

  ‘But I don’t need it any more. Not now Gerry is back,’ she says.

  ‘Your son?’ I ask, tentatively.

  ‘Yes, named after his father, Gerald Henry Mackintosh.’ Hettie takes another sip of her drink.

  ‘Did you meet him in America?’ I say carefully, in case I’m crossing the line, remembering the conversation with Ruby about the mysterious man with the initial G.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. In Hollywood. We courted for two years before he proposed.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I smile.

  ‘That’s why I came home, back to Tindledale. To make the arrangements for the wedding, you see …’ Her voice goes quiet. ‘He had promised to follow me, but he never did …’ Hettie turns away and my heart aches for her. Poor Hettie. She may not have got to the actual altar, but still …

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

  ‘And I never thought I’d see the day.’ She shakes her head solemnly. ‘This was all I had left of little Gerry.’ Hettie reaches a hand out to tap the picture and I crease my forehead. Basil hops off her lap and curls up next to her legs instead, resting his wiry chin on her booties.

  ‘A photo of you? I don’t understand,’ I say, feeling confused.

  ‘Ah, yes, that’s what they all thought. But behind the picture of me, was this. I kept it there, safe, but out of sight, and always close by.’ And she clips open her bag and fumbles around inside before pulling out a black-and-white image of two tiny babies lying on a blanket. ‘Gerry and his sister, Jean. Poor little mite, she died before she had a chance to take her first breath. Too tiny, you see, and they didn’t have all the equipment that they do these days. I remember holding her – my hand was almost as big as her whole body – but there was nothing I could do apart from stroke her tiny face and tell her that I loved her,’ Hettie says numbly and quietly, and a long silence follows. I swallow hard, willing myself not to cry. ‘She’s buried in the churchyard over there.’ And Hettie points towards the silvery glow of the cross high in the dark starry night above St Mary’s church on the other side of the High Street. More silence follows until I can bear it no longer.

  ‘Oh Hettie,’ I gasp, touching the tip of my finger to the corner of the photo; no wonder she always retreated to the kitchen-cum-sitting-room to be alone with her thoughts and memories. ‘I’m so sorry. Bill said …’ I let my voice fade away in case I’m intruding, but then, as if sensing my apprehension, Hettie pops the picture back safely inside her handbag, and tells me what happened.

  ‘Soon after I arrived back in Tindledale, happy and keen to show off my new wonderful husband-to-be, I realised that I was in the family way.’ Hettie hesitates, lowering her voice, and I notice that her hands are trembling slightly. ‘But then, when Gerald didn’t arrive, well, I was on my own. My parents let me stay, of course, and my darling baby Gerry was just a few months old when I fell down the stairs with him in my arms – I was exhausted from sitting up all night, and I hadn’t been coping too well, what with the whispers in the village and all.’ She lets her gaze drop down to her hands. ‘So it was thought prudent that he be adopted for his own safety. “Best all round”, is what my parents had said.’

  Oh God, poor Hettie. And my heart feels as if it’s cracking in two – I can’t imagine how painful that must have been for her.

  ‘Times were different then, dear,’ Hettie offers by way of an explanation, and I’m sure a segment of my heart actually crumbles away. ‘I wanted him to have a perfect life, to have everything I couldn’t give him and be free from the whispers, the stigma of having an unmarried mother – sometimes love just isn’t enough,’ she finishes softly.

  Taking my scarf, I quickly brush it against my face, not wanting her to see the tears that are now pooling in the corners of my eyes. I swallow hard and will myself to be strong, but it’s hard, seeing her pain laid bare like this. All I want to do is wrap her in my arms and comfort her, but I’m not sure how Hettie would feel about that. I pat her arm instead.

  ‘So everyone just assumed the baby had died,’ she continues, ‘which, in a way, is exactly how it felt for me. Grief comes in many forms.’ Another silence follows. And then Hettie’s voice lifts a little. ‘But I was always able to visit Jean, which was a comfort.’ Hettie pats her handbag and I feel utterly in awe of her strength and stoicism. Abandoned by her fiancé, losing her little baby Jean and then having to give up her son, how on earth does anyone deal with so much pain? But she did it. Against all the odds. Somehow, she survived. ‘You know, I named my baby Jean after Gene Kelly himself – he was such a lovely fella, so polite and such a tremendously talented dancer. He gave me some coaching and it took my tap dancing to a whole new level!’ Hettie goes quiet again. ‘I take the bus up to the village once a week to tend to Jean’s flowers.’ Poor, poor Hettie. No wonder she didn’t want to go into a home. No wonder she didn’t want to leave Tindledale and her lovely House of Haberdashery with all its memories. She needs to be here, to be close to Jean. ‘And now her brother, Gerry, has come back to us too,’ Hettie adds.

  ‘How does that make you feel?’ I ask.

  ‘I was apprehensive at first. Ashamed, even. You see, I knew he was coming, but didn’t realise it would be so soon – he found me via Mrs Pocket, you know. There’s an ancestry place in the internet,’ she explains with just a hint of marvel in her voice at this further phenomenon of modern technology. ‘And then when he turned up out of the blue, having stumbled upon the shop’s new website, instead of writing to me first as she had suggested, Mrs Pocket panicked and followed him straight down to the shop. That’s when she hoiked me out from the party and we found him embroiled in the showdown with my nephew and you and Marigold in the bus shelter.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, trying not to snivel. ‘And I know Marigold is too.’

  ‘I know, dear, you thought he was another,’ she pauses, ‘bailiff,’ and lowers her voice again before casting a look over towards the pond. But there’s nobody here, just the two of us, and to be honest, I’m not sure the rest of the villagers are judgemental in that way, certainly not the ones I’ve met. Everyone here seems so nice, warm, down-to-earth and kind. Just concerned and ready to help if they can, but Hettie comes from another era, a time when integrity and honour were all you really had. A time when you put on a brave face – didn’t complain or tell everyone your business, and just got on with it in private.

  ‘We really thought he was your nephew until he actually turned up.’

  ‘Hmm, I don’t think he’ll be rushing back in a hurry, not after that kick you gave him. Good for you.’ Hettie’s face sets into a frown, but then softens again. ‘Gerry told me he was excited and just wanted to meet me right away.’ Her voice soars now. ‘He’s so sorry for turning up unannounced like that.’

  ‘And that’s a wonderful thing. But you’ve nothing to be ashamed of,’ I say, feeling sad that Hettie has carried this burden alone for so long. Nobody knew about the babies, not even Marigold. She told me during the phone call to see if I’d look after the shop that she had no idea Hettie had a son. She remembers as a child that there were rumours running around the village that Hettie was an unmarried mother, but when she had asked her own mother about it, Marigold was told that the baby’s father was a soldier stationed far away in America who was then killed in an accident, which I suppose in a way had a grain of truth to it. And then over the years, the people died, or moved away like Bill did, and the ones that stayed – well, their memories faded.

  ‘My dear, you’re very kind, but you saw how bad things had got when you first arrived. I was heartbroken to think Gerry would turn up to see what a mess I had made of it all. I didn’t want to be a disappointment to him.’ She pauses to take another sip of her wine. ‘It’s all changed now though, thanks to you and your knitting and nattering, and wacky Christmas pull
overs. I can stop worrying about the bills – and that dreadful nephew of mine,’ she adds, sounding lighter now as she finishes the last of her wine.

  ‘Well, it’s been my absolute pleasure to help you Hettie.’ I smile brightly before cranking up the dial on the grill.

  ‘Then please, Sybil, take the picture. Without you, I might very well have lost my home and my beloved House of Haberdashery, and that would never do. Not when my heart will always belong here with baby Jean, in Tindledale.’ She pats her handbag again. ‘The signature might be worth a few bob and you could sell it and pack in that job of yours that you hate. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could come and live here too?’ She lifts the frame from the table and hands it to me, her eyes all sparkly as they glance over towards the twinkling lanterns swaying around the pond. For a moment we sit together and just listen to the carollers singing,

  Silent night, Holy night

  All is calm, all is bright

  ‘Hettie, I couldn’t think of anything I’d love more. This place is special. Magical. And you know …’ I lean in close to her and whisper, ‘those wacky Christmas jumpers helped heal my broken heart too.’

  Christmas Day, and everyone is here in the Duck & Puddle pub. Slade are belting out that old favourite, ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’; Molly and Cooper have popped in for a pint while their turkey cooks at home, and their boys are busy toasting marshmallows on skewers in the blazing flames of the open inglenook fire; Basil is in his usual place, on the blanket by the hearth, with one eye closed and one eye on the marshmallows, presumably hoping one just happens to fall into his mouth.

  Marigold and Lucan are here too, and I’ve just refilled Lucan’s pewter tankard that he keeps behind the bar – I’m helping out seeing as it’s so busy in here. Hettie is with them, smiling and looking relaxed, but a little nervous too as Gerry is on his way to collect her – she’s having her Christmas dinner at his house and he only lives twenty miles away, with his wife, their four grown-up children and numerous grandsons and granddaughters – twelve in total, I think she said. Leo and Beth are at the far end of the bar with some of the other Tindledale Tappers – Louise, Edie, Sarah and Vi and they’re all enjoying a traditional Christmas drink with a goose-fat roasted potato or three, from one of the many brimming bowls dotted along the bar, courtesy of the landlady, Cher, and her other half, Clive, aka Sonny. And this still tickles me. Pete popped in earlier to pick up a barrel of beer on his tractor, they’re having a party at the farm, and he’d momentarily thrown me when he asked if Sonny was up for joining in the village football match tomorrow – it’s a traditional Boxing Day thing, apparently, when they all gather on the green and attempt to kick a football around in a desperate attempt to start working off their festive food indulgence.

  Lawrence arrives, and after peeling off his coat, hat, scarf and gloves (handknitted of course, courtesy of me, as a little Christmas present) he goes to hang them on the peg by the cloakrooms, before climbing on to a stool at the bar.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Sybs.’ He leans across to give me a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Happy Christmas to you too,’ I say, giving his arm a squeeze. ‘What happened to your Japanese guests?’ I glance over towards the door to see if they’re following in behind.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Lawrence smiles. ‘They’re having a bit of a lie in. Seems they may have overindulged on the mulled wine last night and are now feeling a bit delicate. No requests for breakfast either, which I tried to explain wasn’t a good idea and that you can’t beat a good full English to soak up a hangover, but they weren’t convinced.’ He shrugs. ‘I think they’ll be joining us later,’ he finishes diplomatically.

  ‘Ouch!’ And we both laugh. ‘So, what can I get you to drink?’ I grin.

  ‘Ooh, I’ll have a—’

  ‘I’ll get these!’ It’s Ruby, and she looks glorious as always, in a crimson faux fur swingy cape with a fluffy white collar and matching hand muff. She places the muff on the bar and sweeps the cape from her body, revealing a jaunty, and very kitsch, prancing reindeer print vintage blouse.

  ‘Wow! You look sensational,’ I say impulsively.

  ‘Thank you, honey. Wish I could say the same for you!’ And she whips open her bag and pulls out her purse, as I try to reunite my jaw to the rest of my face.

  ‘Oh, that was harsh, Rubes,’ Lawrence says, nudging her with his elbow. ‘Sybs looks lovely, she’s a natural beauty.’ He nods.

  ‘Thank you, Lawrence,’ I smile, having quickly recovered from her bluntness.

  ‘Of course she does,’ Ruby continues, ‘but what I meant was – she may want to get rid of that manky tea towel she has slung over her shoulder.’ And she points a sparkly tipped finger at me.

  ‘Why?’ Lawrence asks, before I manage to.

  ‘Because there’s one very hot doctor waiting outside for her.’ Both Ruby and Lawrence look directly at me, and I swear my heart skips a beat.

  ‘But—’ I open my mouth.

  ‘No buts.’ Cher is at my side now, having earwigged the conversation.

  ‘He asked me to send you outside as he can’t come in,’ Ruby says nonchalantly, smoothing her hair.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why do you think? Because he’ll get bombarded with medical questions if he comes in here, like he always does, that’s why,’ Cher laughs. ‘Now, go on, shoo.’ And she grabs the tea towel from my shoulder and slings it in the sink underneath the bar.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, checking it’s OK – I did offer to help out, but right now, I really want to see him, even if the pub is heaving three deep at the bar. Who knows when I’ll have another chance?

  ‘Yep. We’ll manage,’ Cher says.

  ‘And I know how to serve drinks.’ Ruby leaps down from her stool and sashays around to the serving side of the bar before bellowing, ‘OK, who’s up for a tequila shot?’ in her brilliantly throaty voice as she whips out four shot glasses from the shelf, places them on the bar and fills them up in one smooth movement, just like a pro. Grabbing a knife, she spears a lemon from the bowl, chops it into four wedges, and dares Leo to have a go.

  ‘Be quick,’ Cher groans, leaning into me and shaking her head in Ruby’s direction, and I don’t need telling twice so I dash out the back, grab my parka, scarf and mittens and after collecting Basil, figuring it’ll do him good to galvanise himself into action and stretch his legs, I step outside into the silvery snow that’s falling gently from the sky.

  But Ben isn’t here.

  I look around while Basil bites the snow, before dropping on to his back and rolling around like a crazy dog, swishing his tail to make the snow flurry up and on to his tummy, and I swear if he were human, he’d be laughing and whooping like a looper. I’m just about to turn around to go back inside, when the fifteen Japanese tourists come toddling along the lane, looking very delicate indeed.

  ‘Ah, hello Sybil,’ Mr Tanaka says, doing his customary bow in greeting.

  ‘Happy Christmas to you all,’ I say, hoping they hurry up and get inside the pub because if Ben is out here hiding somewhere, there’s no way he’s going to show himself with them all standing here taking more photos – the pub door, the pub sign, one of the wooden bench seats, one of Pear Tree Cottages, one of the merry woman from the other night who’d sworn to Ben she’d only had one drink with her blanket round her shoulders and her battered old Trilby hat (she’d turned up right on cue), and then finally the process is repeated all over again with me holding the camera while they all cram into view. And then they seem to muster up a modicum of fortitude as, for a grand finale, they stand in a line and whip off their coats, revealing their glorious Christmas jumpers for me to see while they all yell an obviously rehearsed, and very cheery ‘ho ho ho’, patting the sides of their stomachs like they’re Santa as they point to each other’s jumpers as if it’s the funniest thing ever. And I have to say, that it is pretty funny, to see them all guffawing; it’s infectious, and I end up laughing with them. Eventually they stop, and after
thanking me profusely, once again, for saving the day back home in the theme park in Tokyo, they toddle off inside the pub.

  There’s a rustling sound across the way by the village pond.

  ‘Psst. Over here.’ And I stifle a laugh on seeing Ben crouched behind a bunch of snow-covered bushes with the hood of his duffel coat pulled up over his head so that it’s practically covering his face. Basil bounds over to him right away, with me following on the end of his lead.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I breathe, covertly.

  ‘Hiding,’ he says, as if it’s the most obvious explanation ever. ‘It’s the only way.’ And he has such a hunted look on his face that I end up laughing again.

  ‘Oh God, please don’t laugh,’ he says, trying to keep a straight face as he goes to move from his crouched position, but Basil bombs in between his legs, making him lose balance and he plunges backwards into the bushes. We both crack up.

  ‘Ah, feck,’ Ben puffs, the first to recover. He sticks out his hand. ‘Jesus, will you pull me out of here, please?’ His Irish accent gets stronger as he lunges forward in a vain attempt at propelling himself free.

  And I do.

  And he keeps hold of my hand.

  With his body pressed against mine, his breath warm on the cold of my cheeks, neither of us speaks. He lifts off his glasses to wipe away the specks of snow and my pulse quickens as I look into his beautiful emerald eyes. A lock of dark hair falls onto his face. After pushing it away, he places his hand on my cheek, gently sweeping it inside my hood and under my curls at the nape of my neck before pressing his warm lips onto mine. And in this moment, I have absolutely no idea why on earth I ever thought he was nervous, awkward or inexperienced with women when my tummy flips and my heart soars as he kisses me hard and very, very passionately.

  We eventually pull apart and I do an actual gasp, just like they do in the rom-com films.