The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Merry Christmas, Sybs,’ he says gently. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since the first moment I clapped eyes on you on that train.’ Grinning, I touch my woolly-gloved hand to his face. ‘Sorry,’ he says gently, after pushing his glasses back on.

  ‘What for?’ I just about manage, wishing my breathing would slow, back to a normal-ish rhythm.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t have kissed you; I’m not sure it’s an appropriate way for a doctor to carry on,’ he smiles, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in close.

  ‘Mmm …’ I pause to ponder for a moment, and then look up into his beautiful face. ‘But you’re not my doctor!’

  ‘Well, technically I am – you came to see me in my surgery,’ he says, gently kissing the bridge of my nose.

  ‘Ah, yes, but we first met on a train,’ I point out.

  ‘Like Brief Encounter: wasn’t he a doctor too?’ And we both laugh again. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back into the pub,’ he says, slipping his hand in mine and giving Basil a quick stroke when he stretches up and doofs both front paws on Ben’s thighs, eager not to be left out. ‘I’m on call this afternoon – I volunteered months ago, back when I had assumed I’d be on my own today, but maybe we could get together later this evening, someone said Star Wars is on if you fancy it?’ he adds, in a very breezy voice.

  And I freeze.

  I’m rooted to the spot like a statue. Even Basil hunkers down and lets out a little yelp.

  ‘Pardon?’ I just about manage.

  I hold my breath.

  ‘It’s not really my thing, but …’ He shrugs.

  And I let out an enormous sigh of relief before flinging my arms around his neck and squeezing him tight, thinking what a truly, wonderful, perfectly magical Christmas this is.

  Epilogue

  Five months later …

  Spring time. The gloriously warm sun streams through a perfect, cloud-puffed blue sky, while the gentle baa of the newborn lambs drifts over from the fields all around and the air is full with the heavenly scent of wild flowers.

  ‘That’s it. Oops, sorry, a little further to the right. Whoa, stop. Perfect,’ I say to Pete, as he stands on the top of his tractor, making sure the new Hettie’s House of Haberdashery shop sign is properly in place. And it looks magnificent – all art nouveau swirly gold lettering on a French-navy background – very shabby chic haberdashers. And exactly how I imagined it.

  At last, the day I dreamt about, and fantasised over during those tedious long hours at my desk in the council offices, has finally arrived. I went back to work after Christmas and was reassured that I was in no way to blame for Jennifer Ford’s unexpected windfall, and that they had been genuinely worried about me, hence the suggestion I take some time off. Seems I wasn’t even in the office on the date and time when the transaction occurred – doctor’s appointment is what it said on the online team calendar, so I wasn’t the bungling employee after all. And they never did catch up with Jennifer Ford. The last that was heard of her – via a gossip magazine she had sold her story to – was of her swanking it up on a mystery man’s yacht moored in the Cayman Islands, having got lucky on the roulette tables in Vegas.

  Anyway, soon after, the council needed to make cost savings, so I was offered voluntary redundancy and jumped at the chance, gave notice on my flat right away, packed up all my stuff and paid a man with a van to drive it to Tindledale. That’s right, I live here now. Marigold gave me first refusal on a tenancy for the Blackwood Estate lodge, set at the entrance to the farm, a tiny one-bedroom, turreted, Hogwarts-style house, and perfect for Basil and I.

  I’m managing Hettie’s shop now and today we’re having a relaunch party, so she can take a bit of a back seat, and spend the rest of her years doing the things that she loves – knitting, dancing, and getting to know Gerry. But the most wonderful thing of all is that he tracked down his birth father, Gerald, too, the mystery man, G, that Hettie had written about in those letters Ruby found in the suitcase. I did pass on the message from Ruby regarding their potential worth, but Hettie said she couldn’t possibly part with them, not now she has them back. Hettie wrote the letters to her mother from America, and had no idea they’d been kept. But Hettie did agree to chat to Ruby, to share some of her glorious memories of the golden age of Hollywood and they’ve spent a number of evenings together, cosied up in Ruby’s vintage shop, reminiscing while listening to Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly on Ruby’s Dansette record player.

  And Gerald had never forgotten Hettie, or indeed stopped loving her, not deep down, but his parents were very conservative and had put pressure on him to stay in America, and not ‘chase after the English girl who lived so far away’. Gerry never knew about the babies and said that if he had, then he’d have been there like a shot, even if it had meant never seeing his family in America again.

  But the past is the past, and things are much brighter now, and Gerry senior and Hettie talk all the time on Skype – he’s a widower with two grown-up daughters, and still lives in America, in Manhattan. So I persuaded Hettie to treat herself to her very own laptop to have in the snug of her oast, and she now spends hours chatting to Gerry senior and catching up on old times. She said they’re planning an actual get-together very soon, Gerry’s daughter is organising it all for him to sail over on the Queen Mary 2 from New York so he doesn’t have to bother with airports and flying, and all that carry-on, at his age.

  So now that everything is unpacked, the knitted contents of my old spare bedroom are artfully displayed on little hangers in the window, the tea cosies lined up on shelves and Hettie’s mother’s old Singer sewing table has replaced the flaky, chipped counter, the shop is finally ready for today’s party. Even the bus shelter has had a makeover and is now adorned in a gorgeous sunshine-yellow yarnbombed extravaganza, courtesy of Taylor and her mates last night, I assume, as it definitely wasn’t here yesterday.

  ‘Oh, it looks marvellous, Sybil,’ Hettie is standing next to me now, wearing her best floral frock and a lovely light expression on her face. Gone are the worry lines, replaced only with contentment, now that her heart has healed and she’s finally found her peace. ‘You’ve done wonders with the old place, and I never thought I’d see the day – it would certainly wipe the smile off that nephew of mine’s face.’ She loops her arms through mine.

  ‘Have you heard anything more from him?’ I ask, remembering when he turned up again shortly after Christmas, only to take one look at me and scarper back into his shiny black Range Rover.

  ‘Oh no dear, he won’t be bothering us any more,’ Hettie says with a devious twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Why? What have you done?’ I smile cautiously.

  ‘Told him of course. Well, not me personally, no, the solicitor that Gerry junior found for me, did – that you’re in charge now, that the shop is yours and I’ll be staying put in my home until the time comes for them to take me away in a box, thank you very much, and not to be thinking he stands to inherit a penny, oh no, not now that Gerry is back in my life.’ And she chuckles. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and give her a big hug.

  ‘I’m so happy for you,’ I smile.

  ‘And me for you. Now, come on, dear, it’s nearly time for the speeches,’ says Hettie, breaking away and patting my arm.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mum whip a hanky out of her sleeve before nudging Dad and pressing the hanky into his hand with a ‘wipe the sweat off your bald head at once’ stare. What on earth will everyone think? I chuckle inwardly. Mum looks amazing. They arrived yesterday and she went straight into Ruby’s shop and bought a vintage Aquascutum dress with matching bag and cute lace gloves, said it was only right if she was coming to the relaunch of a ‘premier’ establishment. Poor Glenda from next door has been getting a daily bulletin update on my move to Tindledale and plans for the shop for the last few months – anyone would think I’d single-handedly commissioned a shuttle to the moon, the way Mum’s been carrying on. You know, she even erected one of those electronic
countdown clocks in the kitchen. Ticking away the days, hours and minutes. Won it on eBay, apparently, and none of us even knew she’d discovered online shopping.

  *

  ‘Sooo, I’ll shut up now,’ Cher says, and after a smile and subtle nod of encouragement from Clive, she turns and cuts the ribbon. ‘I hereby declare Sybs’ and Hettie’s magnificent House of Haberdashery well and truly re-open!’ Clasping my hands together up under my chin, I can bear it no longer and let out an enormous whoop of joy. It’s been a long time coming, but I’ve finally achieved my dream, albeit in a different way to the one I’d imagined. There’s an enormous cheer from the crowd – most of the villagers, people from the parish council, plus Dolly, with Bill in a wheelchair, Molly, Cooper, Marigold, Lord Lucan, Taylor, Louise, Edie, Beth, Leo and all of the Tindledale Tappers, and of course my dear friends Lawrence and Ruby, who between them well and truly helped me heal the broken heart that I had when I first arrived here in Tindledale.

  Smoothing down my sundress – it has a fitted bodice with a swishy dirndl skirt, mint green and creamy white, and I made it myself from one of Hettie’s old Forties’ Butterick patterns so it’s a walking advertisement for my new sewing classes that start next week. I leave my guests chatting and enjoying a scrumptious selection of Kitty’s cakes, and head into the shop. Which reminds me. I grab the parcel from the low table just inside the door and call Kitty over.

  ‘A gift for you,’ I say, handing her the present.

  ‘For me?’ Kitty smiles, but creases her forehead. ‘Honestly, there’s no need – you’ve already paid for today’s cakes.’

  ‘Please, this is different,’ I say, a wave of nerves sweeping right through me. What if I got it wrong? What if it upsets her? Spotting us together, Lawrence comes over and slips his arm around Kitty’s shoulders in support, before giving me a wink of encouragement. I take a deep breath. Kitty peels off the paper and unfolds the gift. Silence follows as her eyes take it all in, and then she knows. She sees what it is – a memory quilt made from carefully cut pieces of Ed’s clothes. That’s what she had wanted Lawrence’s help with that day in the pub, to clear out Ed’s wardrobe, which Lawrence did, and then we came up with this idea. Kitty presses the quilt to her face and inhales hard, before handing it to Lawrence and flinging her arms around my neck.

  ‘Sybs, it’s amazing. I love it. Thank you so much, my friend,’ she says, softly in my ear.

  ‘Phew. I’m so pleased you do,’ I say, clasping her hands and smiling as she lets me go. ‘I thought it might be a comfort, something for Teddie to treasure too.’

  ‘And she will. But Sybs, there’s someone here who has a present for you,’ she says, looking a little nervous now.

  ‘Oh.’ And Adam appears from the crowd. I’ve seen him a couple of times in the High Street, but he’s always avoided making eye contact, and I didn’t dare confront him to explain, for fear of getting another mouthful of abuse.

  ‘Sybs, I wanted to give you this,’ he starts, before sweeping a hand nervously through his blond hair. I take the Tindledale Books carrier bag from him and peep inside. ‘It’s a vintage knitting book, very rare. I, um,’ he coughs to clear his throat, ‘thought you might like it – a peace offering – to say sorry for bawling at you that day. It won’t ever happen again. I was, am, well … going through a nasty divorce and I jumped to conclusions.’ He looks at the ground.

  ‘Forget it. I have. And thanks so much for this,’ I say, waggling the carrier bag in the air, and he visibly relaxes. ‘Sorry to hear about your divorce though.’ And his shoulders stiffen again. ‘So, seeing as we’re all exchanging presents today, I have one for you too, Lawrence,’ I add, to lighten the mood.

  ‘Ah, you don’t have to give me a gift,’ Lawrence smiles.

  ‘Yes I do, after all that you did for me. It’s the least I can do.’ And after placing the carrier bag on the side, I point to a framed picture stored behind an armchair.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  ‘Take a look.’ I slide the frame out and he gasps.

  ‘Studio 54! Oh Sybs, I adore it,’ he says, pulling me in for a big hug. I found it on the internet, a black-and-white print of people queuing up to get in, and I’m sure there’s a guy in the picture wearing peach cord flares. ‘I’ll treasure this for ever,’ he adds, his eyes going misty.

  Leaving Kitty, Adam and Lawrence together, I walk on into the shop, smiling as I pass the framed picture on the wall of the sixty Japanese staff at the English village theme park, all lined up doing Wayne’s World thumbs ups, and looking resplendent in their wacky Ho Ho Ho Christmas jumpers. I wander through to the kitchen-cum-sitting-room and stand quietly, taking it all in, remembering my very first day here, meeting Hettie, both of us heartbroken and sad. I smile, thinking how amazing it is, the way things happen in life, how they turn out, how sometimes they’re just meant to be.

  I turn to the mantelpiece and lift a finger to the framed picture – Hettie’s picture signed by Gene Kelly. No way was I ever going to keep it for myself, or even sell it, no, it’s far too precious for that. It was taken all those years ago when she was young and carefree and full of dreams, before fate tore it all away and broke her heart. But she’s come full circle and is happy now, with the chance to live out the rest of her life in her beloved oast house surrounded by a community that loves her and the memories she holds so dear.

  And I got my dream too! My own broken heart has healed and I can knit and sew and quilt and crochet all day, and all night long if I want to, here in the picture-postcard village of Tindledale. It really doesn’t get much better than this. I feel at home, happy, and surrounded by friends too.

  Footsteps break my reverie, and Ben appears.

  ‘You made it,’ I smile, leaning in to him for a kiss.

  ‘I wasn’t missing this for the world, not even Tommy Prendergast’s imagined hernia,’ he laughs, pulling a pretend face of despair, before looking around the shop. ‘Sybs, this is so amazing. And to think you’ve transformed it on your own.’

  ‘Well, not entirely on my own, I had a lot of help from my fellow knitting addicts, the Tindledale Tappers,’ I tell him, remembering the countless evenings, when, after lots of knitting and nattering and party ring biscuits and bars of Fry’s Peppermint Cream, they got stuck in, rolling up the old threadbare rug, painting the stripped wooden floor a gorgeous shade of shabby chic grey, the walls too. Even the furniture has had a makeover, so now the comfy armchairs and sofa have a gloriously eclectic mix of floral, knitted and crocheted covers, with deliberately mismatched cushions and throws, creating a lovely, cosy, welcoming place for fellow crafters to come and relax. And they do. The last few months have been so busy, with villagers joining in the various knitting, sewing and quilting courses, residents from Stoneley and Market Briar too. We even had a coach load of knitters from Clapham who couldn’t get enough of the wonderful new stock ranges and they’ve been ordering online ever since.

  ‘Well, I still think you’re incredible,’ Ben says. ‘And I would have helped. I know I’m a clumsy doctor geek, but I can decorate and hump furniture around with the best of them,’ he grins, flexing his muscles like the strong man in a Vaudeville circus act, making me laugh.

  Through the window, I can hear Mum chatting in her too-loud voice to the reporter from the Tindledale Herald.

  ‘Oh yes, Sybil has always had an eye for the creative things in life, and she’s a spectacular seamstress. You know she used to spend hours helping me sew and hem, um,’ Mum pauses and pats her hair, ‘things! You know, just watching to see how it was done. Takes after me. In fact, I’ve won awards for my embroidery. Third place at last year’s summer fete and …’

  Smiling and rolling my eyes, I glance at Ben. He smiles and steps closer to me, pushing a stray hair away from my cheek. Turning together, we peep through the side of the blind, eavesdropping like a pair of cheeky children, well, not children exactly, as Ben is standing behind me with his hands underneath my dress, his feather-soft finger
s stroking the tops of my thighs. Mum waves a magnanimous hand around.

  ‘And I’m not sure if you know already,’ Mum continues, ‘but she has a new boyfriend. All very discreet at this stage, with him being such a prominent pillar of the community, a doctor and all, saving lives every day.’ She taps the reporter’s notepad, ‘Make sure you put that in,’ she instructs. ‘Yes, he’s very eminent and has won awards for his pioneering work in, um, er …’ She pauses, and her cheeks flush as she realises she’s caught herself out. ‘And he comes from a very good family in Ireland.’ Mum beams as she scans the crowd looking for me. I shake my head, and Ben and I both crack up laughing, but I guess Mum can relax now that I’m suitably paired up with a man, and a doctor, no less. What will the neighbours think?

  After kissing the back of Ben’s hand, I drop it gently and wander outside to be with my friends, and to find Basil too – last time I spotted him, he was sitting underneath the cake table, sweeping his tail and doing his usual feed-me-I’m-starving (hardly) face. A van pulls up and Lucy, from the florist in Tindledale High Street, leaps out and runs over to me.

  ‘Flowers for you,’ she beams and hands me a beautiful bouquet of pink and white roses, then adds, ‘Good luck, Sybs, I’ll be down next week to sign up for your new crochet class. I’ve a new granddaughter on the way so the perfect pram blanket will be just the thing. Cheerio.’ And she’s back in her van, waving with her arm sticking out from the open window as she drives off to do the rest of her deliveries.

  ‘Mmm, they’re beautiful.’ Hettie comes over with Basil under her arm. He leans around the flowers for a quick stroke, and I duly oblige by giving his black velvety head a good rub. ‘But who’d waste their money on such an extravagance, when we have a field full of flowers right here?’ Hettie sniffs in disapproval, before sticking her nose into the bouquet. I shake my head and smile. Typical Hettie, she may have mellowed, but she’s still as outspoken as ever. I pull out the card. Ah, it’s from my old neighbour, Poppy, in London. She couldn’t be here today as she’s on holiday with her new boyfriend, a QC from the law firm where she works – they’re staying at his beach house in Nantucket.