Knit One Pearl One

by Gil McNeil

  By the time we’ve changed into our swimsuits and I’ve persuaded Pearl that she really does have to wear her swim nappy, and Archie that he doesn’t need his snorkel, I’m really going off the idea of a swim. But the water is lovely, and it feels very glamorous, swimming in an indoor pool surrounded by such opulence with views of the woods, and perfect lawns. Even the towels are superior.

  “Hi, darling, how are you?”

  Grace looks stunning, as usual, in a white swimsuit. I can’t imagine ever choosing white, black provides so much more in the way of camouflage, but she looks lovely. Lightly tanned, and not a millimeter of anything remotely wobbly. Ellen’s right, it’s like she’s from another species.

  Lily takes a shine to Archie and paddles around the pool after him, much to Jack’s amusement. Pearl is bobbing around in the inflatable baby seat Lily used when she was little, having a brilliant time. I managed to jettison the tiara during a nifty bit of footwork involving slices of apple or she’d definitely be wearing it.

  “Ten more minutes, Meg. I think Sam has made some food, Jo, if that’s okay with you. Chicken I think.”

  “That sounds lovely, Grace, thank you.”

  I enjoy a mini-daydream where I no longer have to cook suppers because my chef has them ready and waiting when I emerge from my pool. I can’t really see it somehow, but it must be wonderful. Actually, I’d settle for someone to cook the occasional supper and do without the pool. No more pondering what to do with a packet of mince or how I can persuade Archie to eat omelets.

  “I’ll just do a few more laps, Jo. Take the kids out with Meg and I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

  “Great.”

  “More.”

  I’m not sure Pearl is quite ready for her supper yet.

  Maxine’s sitting at the huge refectory table in the kitchen drinking tea by the time we’re all changed. The kids are starving, but Sam has everything ready, so instead of the usual wait while I race to get a meal on the table and they get increasingly crabby, the food appears the minute we sit down. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans, and a toddler-friendly fruit salad with yogurt, with cartoons on in the background on the giant TV screen. Everyone is blissed out, and I half wish I wasn’t eating later with Martin because the chicken looks so lovely.

  Grace reappears in jeans and a pretty cotton shirt, with bare feet. Even her feet are beautiful, with perfect red nail varnish that she definitely didn’t do herself.

  “Let’s go and sit by the fire. Meg will watch them for a minute.”

  “We’ll need to leave as soon as they’ve finished eating or Pearl will start kicking off. She’s tired and that’s always tricky.”

  Meg smiles and nods at Lily. “Same here. But they’ll be fine for a bit, Jo.”

  “Max, bring us in some more tea, would you. I want my herbal stuff, and did you bring the wool, Jo? I want to see the new colors.”

  I lift the basket I made up in the shop earlier, with a selection of the cashmere and silk mixes she likes, and the soft baby cotton.

  “There are some lovely new Italian ones, really fabulous colors, and they knit up beautifully. Connie helped me with the order, so the price isn’t that bad either.”

  I follow her across the hall and into the small living room, which has new sofas and armchairs, in a lovely mix of blue florals and pale greens.

  “She’s the one who’s pregnant, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Grace sits down in an armchair by the fire. “Show me. Oh, I love the pale lilac, pretty. Get me some of that, I want to make her another ballet wrap; she looks so sweet in them, and they’re so easy.”

  “Okeydoke. So how was the trip?”

  “The usual madness, hard work, but pretty good overall. We saw Daniel Fitzgerald in L.A., did Maxine say?”

  “No, how was he?”

  “Fine, busy being the jet-set photographer, surrounded by models as usual, but he showed me a picture of Pearl, the one you sent him from her birthday. He was very discreet about it, but he seemed very proud of it, it was sweet. So you’ve sorted it with him?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, and I’m sure it will get more complicated when she’s bigger, but so far so good. He calls, to check in how she’s doing, that kind of thing. It’s fine.”

  “What about money?”

  Grace is very up-front on stuff like this, just like Ellen. I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve both of them on my case though.

  “I really don’t want his money, Grace. It feels important that I’m taking care of us, all of us. It would be different if I couldn’t manage, but I can, and he did offer. I’ve told him to start a savings account for her, if he wants to, for when she’s bigger. I’ve still got some of Nick’s money for the boys, so that’ll give them all the same.”

  “Good for you, darling. Sisters are doing it for themselves, yes?”

  “Yes. Or doing it for their kids. And that reminds me, I keep meaning to say, you really don’t need to keep paying me, for the knitting coach thing, not when you’re so busy. I’ve hardly done anything lately, and that doesn’t feel right.”

  “Yes, well, get over it. You’re my supplier, and I need my fix now, and anyway, us single parents have got to stick together.” She smiles.

  “Thanks, Grace, that’s really kind, but seriously, I’d hate you to think you had to—”

  “Darling, I don’t have to do anything, I know that. But I like having you on call, and that’s final. I’m surrounded by people taking a cut of my money, I know the type, and it’s just not you. Anyway, this new film I’ve just signed up for involves knitting, so you’ll be back in action before you know it.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. What new film?”

  “It’s not public yet.”

  She gives me one of her Megastar looks. She moves backward and forward between being an ordinary person and suddenly going all VIP, and you have to be careful to mind the gap.

  “Of course.”

  “Brideshead meets Upstairs Downstairs. I’m the servant who becomes the Lady of the house, like that ever happened. They used to pack him off to the colonies, and she got the sack. But this is set around the First World War, so they’re running out of heirs. The scripts are written by two women, rather than one of those middle-aged men who all secretly yearn for the good old days when you could buy a scullery maid and still have change from sixpence. I can’t be bothered with that lot, they’re such snobs. We’ve spent ages getting the script right; I’m Exec-Producing this one too.”

  “It sounds brilliant.”

  She smiles, one of her megawatt smiles.

  “I am pretty excited about it. She’s the gardener’s daughter, but she ends up the Toast of Society, instead of just Toast, which is what the dowager countess wants. So there’s comedy too, and I get to knit, in the gardener’s cottage, to show I’m a proper working-class girl. We’re shooting in the U.K., thank God, I’m so over living in fucking hotels. You can never get what you want, however much you pay. I’m so pleased to be home. Oh, great, tea. Thanks, Max.”

  “Sorry I took so long. Ed rang, and he’d like to speak to you.”

  “I don’t want to know. He’s my agent; he should be fixing things, not ringing me up with questions all the fucking time. Ring him back and say I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Have you asked her?”

  “Sorry?”

  “About the party.”

  Grace smiles. “I was just coming to that. I want to have a tea party for Lily. We had her birthday party in L.A.”

  “I know, I saw it in the papers.”

  “Yes, well, that wasn’t my idea, some fucker tipped them off. Probably Ed.”

  “There weren’t any pictures of Lily, just people arriving, stuff like that. It looked very glamorous.”

  “It was ridiculous. Some idiot from the studio actually bought her a diamond tiara, can you believe it, and she got a diamond tennis bracelet, although why anyone wears diamonds to play tennis
is beyond me.”

  “To show off?”

  She smiles.

  I’m so glad I left Pearl’s tiara at home.

  “I thought an old-fashioned English tea party would be nice. This is her home, after all.”

  Maxine looks nervous. “Ed wants to invite lots of VIPs from London too, Grace. Have you decided about that?”

  “Fine. A few. But I want locals too, people with kids, if you can help us with that, Jo. I want it to feel like a family event. Next month sometime.”

  “I’d love to. Why don’t you do it on a Sunday? Actually, Mother’s Day’s coming up, isn’t it? Would that work?”

  “Brilliant. Max, check the dates, would you?”

  Maxine is already tapping away on her BlackBerry.

  “Mother’s Day is April the third this year, and then Easter is toward the end of April. We’re in Milan on the second, but we could do the weekend before that?”

  “Perfect. An early Mother’s Day tea party. I like it. Sort it with Jo, would you, Max?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Jo, get me some of that lilac, and the peppermint, and the raspberry, and bring those patterns for blankets over again, I want to make something for her new bed. Evenings by the fire knitting, that’s exactly what I need right now. Fuck, who’s that?”

  The phone on the table by her chair is beeping.

  “It’s Ed. He really wants to run through the interview bids with you, Grace.”

  “Christ, why can I never get any peace? Okay, I’ll take it. Thanks, Jo. Hi, Ed, don’t hello-darling me, I’m not in the bloody mood.”

  Maxine nods toward the door, and we tiptoe out. Blimey. It sounds like Ed might be in for a bumpy half hour.

  “Oh, before I forget, I’ve got a couple of bags for you, just a few things Lily’s too big for now.”

  “Thanks, Max.”

  Cinzia will be thrilled. She loves dressing Pearl in clothes which Lily has grown too big for, little designer T-shirts and denim skirts, with soft cotton tights that cost a fortune, and gorgeous old-fashioned flannel nightgowns with embroidered yokes.

  “It’s our pleasure. It’s lovely knowing someone else will get the benefit. And Meg says we’ve got stacks of cot-size sheets and blankets if you can use them, now she’s in her new bed.”

  “I’m fine, I think, but thank her for me, would you? Oh dear, I think that might be Archie.”

  There’s the unmistakable sound of “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands” being sung very loudly as we head back toward the kitchen. Lily and Pearl are clapping and having a lovely time, despite being covered in yogurt.

  Jack gives me a desperate look. “Is it home time now, Mum?”

  “Yes, love.”

  “Good.”

  It’s nearly half past eight by the time I’ve finished the baths and bedtime routine. Thank God I took the lasagne out of the freezer this morning, so I only need to make a salad and supper is ready. I’ve brought some of the clementine ice cream home for pudding—Martin’s not that keen on puddings, but he makes an exception for Mark’s ice cream.

  I’m lighting the fire in the living room when he arrives, with a bottle of red wine and a bunch of red roses. He’s still wearing the bobble hat Elsie knitted him as we go into the kitchen.

  “I know they’re soppy, but I thought you might like them.”

  “Thank you, they’re lovely.”

  He leans forward for a kiss, but I move sideways.

  “There’s something I need you to do first.”

  He looks slightly worried.

  “Take your hat off.”

  He takes it off and throws it on the floor. “Better?”

  “Much. Now we’ve both got tufty hair.”

  “Tufty? This is tousled, proper men have tousled hair. Nothing tufty.”

  “If you say so. Supper’s nearly ready.”

  “Great. I’m starving. It smells great, what is it?”

  “Cod in parsley sauce.”

  I open the oven door and carry the lasagne to the table.

  “Great. You had me going there for a minute.”

  “Good. Because I need to know when you’re going to tell her. You can’t keep a great big boat a secret for much longer, you know, and if she finds out, well, it’ll be much worse, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I know.”

  We talk about his plans for the boat, in slightly more detail than I intended, and the sailing course he’s going to book, where you learn how to read charts and not sail into things, and use the radio, and then he gives me another lecture about how we can improve the website for the shop and I need to take far more pictures, and upload stuff. Or possibly download.

  “This lasagne’s great. I’ll need to get some flares too.”

  “I’m assuming you’re talking distress signals now, rather than special sailing trousers.”

  “Yes, thank you. You won’t be so superior when we’re onboard in some little deserted bay catching our own supper and watching the stars.”

  “I might be. It depends on the weather.”

  “Well yes, not this time of year obviously. But in the summer. I can’t wait. I bet the kids will love it.”

  “I’m sure they will. Once we’ve got them into their life jackets, just in case. Actually, do they do life jackets for girls in tiaras? Otherwise Pearl won’t be coming.”

  He smiles. “I’m sure they do. Safety is paramount, even for princesses, every good skipper knows that.”

  “Skipper?”

  “Shut up.”

  He’s helping me put the plates in the sink. “That was lovely.”

  “The fire’s on in the living room. Why don’t you go through and I’ll make the coffee.”

  “No, you go and sit down, you made the meal, I’ll make the coffee.”

  “Ahoy, Captain.”

  Oh, God. How mortifying. I’ve just woken up, and it’s half past twelve and I’m on the sofa. The fire’s gone out, and Martin’s left a note.

  Tried to wake you, but you were out for the count. Let’s do this again, only next time where we’re both awake.

  Martin x

  P.S. You looked very lovely fast asleep.

  I text him, just in case he’s still awake.

  SORRY. BEEN A LONG WEEK. PROMISE TO STAY AWAKE NEXT TIME. JO X

  My phone beeps while I’m putting the washing machine on.

  HAVEN’T ACTUALLY SENT A GIRL TO SLEEP BEFORE. AT LEAST I KNOW YOU DON’T SNORE. : ) M.

  I text him back.

  I DO. PS—YOU LEFT YOUR HAT. TWIT. X

  • • • 3 • • •

  Let It Snow

  March

  It’s a quarter to nine on Monday morning, and we’re about to start the inaugural journey of the walking bus at the bottom of the High Street. We’ve already got fifteen kids, and Pearl’s singing and trying to get her balaclava off, thrilled to find herself with such a large audience. Bloody hell; it’s so cold the kids are all wrapped up in wooly hats and scarves, which they’re trying take off when their mums aren’t looking. Connie’s holding the we’re-walking-to-school lollipop which Mark made for her, and Jane Johnson is already festooned with PE kit and book bags. We’ve got a stop set up at the Post Office on the seafront, then one at Mr. Parsons’s shop, where he’s hung a special sign in among his buckets and mops, and then one just past our shop on the corner. The last collection point is by the bandstand in the park, which is only a few minutes from school, but we didn’t want anyone to feel left out. It’s cloudy, and it looks like it’ll rain any minute. Bugger.

  Jane counts the kids and lifts her green flag; her husband, Bob, collects model trains, and he’s got a bit carried away with all the planning. He’s lent us his whistle too.

  “Fifteen.”

  Connie and I nod, and we’re off.

  Parents stand clapping as we straggle up the High Street, and I spot Lady Denby standing waving a Union Jack, for some reason best known to herself, with Algie and Clark
son wagging their tails. By the time we reach our shop, we’ve got thirty-one kids, and there are more children and parents waiting, alongside Gran, with Elsie and Laura.

  “Here you go, Jo. I can’t wait till my Rosie can do this, it’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

  “You can take my place on the rota anytime you like, Laura.”

  She smiles. “No, you’re all right.”

  “You look very smart in your jacket, pet.”

  “Thanks, Gran.”

  Jane is raising her flag again.

  “Forty-two.”

  I start counting, which is harder than you’d think when everyone keeps moving.

  Connie blows her whistle, and the kids all stand still; all that PE training at school is definitely paying off.

  “We need to count.”

  Everyone stops talking, including Gran and Elsie.

  “Forty-two.”

  Jane raises her flag and we’re off again, to a little chorus of clapping.

  I’d be touched if it wasn’t so bloody cold and I wasn’t wearing a scratchy fluorescent tabard with I’M WALKING TO SCHOOL stenciled on the back.

  The tricky bit, where we have to cross the road at the top of the hill, goes without a hitch; partly because we got so anxious about it last week we came and practiced with Jane after school. We wait for the lights to go red, and then Connie leads the kids across, while Jane plants herself in the middle of the road and holds her green flag firmly down by her side in case some idiot mistakes it for a signal to drive forward. I follow slowly to make sure nobody gets marooned on the wrong side of the traffic, and a man in a Range Rover toots and looks annoyed. Luckily, Trent Carter’s dad is behind him and leans out of his window and gives him a hand signal which I don’t remember from the Highway Code.

  “The kids are crossing the road. What’s your problem? Wanker.”

  The driver in the Range Rover tries to ignore this, but it’s quite hard when you’ve got three women, forty-two mixed infants, and various onlookers laughing at you. The kids are all thrilled, particularly Trent.

  “That’s my dad, and that bloke is a wanker, isn’t he, miss?”

  I’m not sure what our policy is on swearing on the bus, I’m guessing we’re not keen, but I think I’ll just ignore it. And anyway, I quite like being called miss.