by Gil McNeil
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Gran.”
“Well, it’ll be nice to see them both, although how your father has stuck with her all these years I’ll never know. I shouldn’t say it about my own daughter, but she’s always been a right little madam. It’ll be lovely to see our Vinnie though. Are you sure that’s the bad news, pet?”
“Yes. I was joking, Gran.”
She smiles.
“You weren’t planning to go on your cruise around then, were you?”
“No, we’re still looking. We’re thinking about June, for our wedding anniversary. Do you think that’s silly, at our age?”
“No, not at all.”
Elsie’s coming back downstairs; she’s got a sixth sense for gathering interesting news. She puts the order book down on the counter.
“Another cruise, Mary? It’s all right for some, isn’t it?”
“Nothing’s decided yet, we’re just looking.”
After years of battling with her in the shop, Gran’s still reluctant to confide too much potential gossip to Elsie, not least because she likes to save her top nuggets for Betty.
“There is something else I wanted to tell you, both of you actually.”
They look at me.
“Ellen’s got a new television series, in the mornings. She’s starting the week after next, on Monday.”
“Isn’t that lovely? Well tell her congratulations from me, pet. She works so hard, you’d think she’d slow down now she’s got the baby. Tell her I’ll make sure I watch it, or Reg can record it for us, can he? We’ve only done that with programs in the evening so far. Is it the same during the day?”
“Yes, Gran, he’ll be able to record it. But that’s not all of the news, because she’s going to come down here to film, in the shop, next Wednesday. An interview, with Ellen and Grace, and me, hopefully only a bit of me. I don’t really want to be in it at all, but Ellen’s insisting, and you know how bossy she is.”
“Oh my Lord.”
“In our shop, Mary, did you ever?”
Gran seems stunned. “Our shop, on the television, I never dreamed in a million years. Well, I just hope old Mrs. Butterworth is watching; not watching the telly, of course, I mean looking down. Although if she’s in heaven, then someone up there needs their head’s examining, that’s all I’m saying. She’ll drop down stone dead all over again when she sees how well you’ve done. She always said I ruin everything, and now look.”
Reg comes back from the ducks, fussing about them being late for music.
“Yes, but Reg, you’ll never guess what our Jo’s done now. Go on, guess. We’re going to be on the television, that’s all.”
“Gran, calm down, it’s days away yet.”
“Yes, but I’ll need to get my hair done, and I’ve got nothing to wear. I can’t wear my wedding suit for something like that. Oh, Elsie, isn’t it lovely?”
They hug, which I’m not sure they’ve ever actually done before. They both seem rather shocked, and pause, mid-hug, and then smile at each other, and Elsie pats Gran’s hand.
Reg looks like he’s trying quite hard not to laugh as Elsie beams at me.
“I always said your Jo would work miracles, Mary, and she has. I feel quite faint, you know. I think I better sit down.”
By the time I’ve calmed everybody down and got Gran off to music, Elsie’s eaten half a packet of chocolate digestives and is still sitting behind the counter in a daze. I’ve promised they can all be in the café, for background interest. I’m not sure they’ll actually appear on telly, but I’ll ask Ellen to make sure they film them for a minute or two, because it’s the only way I can think of to keep them out of the way. I’ve sworn them all to secrecy: I’ve said if the news gets out, the filming will probably be canceled, so they’ve invented a code word, which was Reg’s idea, Operation Double Knitting.
Christ, this is going to be a long day.
I’m adding the knitted egg cozies into the window, with some of the flower brooches Elsie’s finished, bunches of primroses mostly, and a few of the mohair flowers in fresh spring colors, to move the Mother’s Day theme on toward Easter. I’ll put the rabbits and chicks in after the party; I don’t want anyone small being tempted to help themselves to a knitted rabbit. Laura’s knitting some more egg cozies; they sold well last year, so we need as many as we can get. I’ll knit a few more flower brooches too, if I can find the time. Sitting knitting in the evenings, with the feel of the wool between my fingers and the regular rhythm of the stitches, is very calming, and I can use as much of that as I can get at the moment, even if I am only knitting a daffodil.
“It’s Maxine on the phone for you.”
Elsie’s almost quivering with excitement as she hands the phone to me, and I can tell Maxine is smiling.
“Have you told them yet?”
“Yes, why?”
Oh, God, what has Elsie been saying?
“Nothing, she just said she expected she’d be seeing me soon, so I thought you’d probably told her. We’re not going to announce it yet, but it’s not a problem if it gets out. Just put any press calls through to me as usual, yes?”
“Of course, but I’ve told everyone that filming is likely to be pulled if it gets out. So I’m sure we can be discreet about it.”
She laughs. “You’re trying to keep the excitement levels down, is that the idea?”
“I think that ship may have already sailed, but we need to avoid half the town knowing, or they’ll all be lining up desperate to get on the telly.”
Elsie is listening and nodding, looking furtive, like she’s on a secret mission in enemy territory and is keeping a lookout for snipers.
Maxine laughs. “Well, good luck with that one. In my experience, everyone likes to tell someone, and before you know it you’ve got snappers everywhere. The local paper is bound to get wind of it, but we’re happy with nice local stuff.”
Luckily, Mrs. Marwell tries to wheel her trolley in at this point, and Elsie has to go and help her, so she can’t keep listening in. I’m not sure Mrs. Marwell has ever found herself helped into the shop quite so quickly though.
“So if that boy from the local paper who did the library knit-in turns up, I don’t have to wrestle his camera off him?”
“No, you’re fine. And anyway, we’ve got Bruno if we need any wrestling.”
“When are you back? You’re still in London, I take it?”
“Yes, but Grace wondered if you’re around at the weekend. Actually, here she is now. Yes, I’m on the line to her now, I was just—”
“Sunday would be great, if you’re around, darling?”
“Sorry Grace, it’s Archie’s party that day. You’re welcome to join us, of course. I think Maxine already has it in the diary.”
Please God, let her say they can’t make it. We’re already going to be packed in quite tightly, without adding Grace and Lily and Maxine and Bruno into the mix.
“Oh yes, of course. I don’t think we can do that, I’m meeting the studio people, and Monday is out, we’ve got a lunch, so I guess I’ll see you for the interview. Anything special you’d like me to say, apart from how much I love the shop, spend hours there, that kind of thing?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Sort me out some knitting, would you, darling? I’ve just finished that cardigan for Lily, and I won’t have a chance to start anything else; this premiere is getting ridiculous. One of your shawls would be perfect.”
“The mohair ones are rather fiddly. Shall I go for the cashmere?”
“Perfect. Max, what am I wearing for this interview? No, I don’t want that, that’s totally wrong; honestly, you’re hopeless. One of the new dresses, the green one. Okay, so that pale gray color you were showing me would work with that, Jo.”
“The pebble or the slate?”
“Pebble. Thanks Jo. Ed’s really pleased we’re doing this; it fits in perfectly with the media strategy. We were going to have to do another bloody At Home piece, and now we don
’t. ”
“And you’re feeling okay? Sorry. I don’t know why I said that, but are you? Oh God, sorry. Just ignore me.”
Bugger. I’ve catapulted myself into babbling now, just like Gran and Elsie.
She laughs. “Wonderful, darling, thank you, see you next week.”
Phew. I’m glad she didn’t mind, you can never tell with Grace. Sometimes the shutters come down so quickly you practically have to watch out for your fingers. But I keep thinking about her and the baby, I can’t help it. It will be so lovely for Lily; at least I hope it will, it can be a pretty major blow for the firstborn. I think Jack is still trying to get over the arrival of Archie. Actually, we all are, not that we don’t adore him, of course. But I’m so pleased for her, even though I can’t help wondering who the father is, which is awful because I hated that, all the gossip when I had Pearl, and it’s got to be so much worse when all the national newspapers cover your every move.
Everyone seems to have a view on how other people live their lives, especially in a small seaside town where not much else is happening. But everywhere really, not just in Broadgate, people seem to love dissecting other people’s lives. Like most of us aren’t just doing the best we can. I didn’t plan to have Pearl, but then I didn’t particularly plan to have Jack either. Married, single, gay, straight, or haven’t made your mind up yet. With a partner, solo, or going the turkey baster route, I can’t see that it matters as long as you really want the baby and you do your very best for them when they arrive. When you see some of the terrible things that happen, you realize that’s the only thing that matters. That you love them. And anyway, it’s Grace’s business, not mine, and I need to stop thinking about it, or I’ll probably end up blurting at the worst possible moment, probably in the middle of filming, like those anxiety dreams where you’re halfway round the supermarket when you realize you haven’t got your trousers on.
Right. I need to put those orders in from Saturday, and have another look at the workroom; the light’s much better upstairs, so I’m guessing they’ll want to film up here. Elsie’s already writing a list of jobs she thinks we need to do, under the heading of Operation Double Knitting on the top of her notepad.
“I’m just going to put little notes to myself, and that way if someone finds it, they won’t know. Should I use code, do you think, like shorthand?”
“Do you know how to write in shorthand, Elsie?”
“No.”
“Probably not then.”
I’m not sure those biscuits were such a good idea now.
“Can I tell my Jeffrey, and Martin?”
“Sure.”
“We’ll need to clean those windows. I know they were only done a few weeks ago, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, he doesn’t do a proper job. Dirty old bucket of water and that windscreen wiper thing; you need to do a proper polish to get windows clean.”
“They look fine to me, Elsie.”
“I’ll bring my cloths in from home and give them a good going-over.”
“Okay, if you want to. Crikey, look at the time. The mums group will be here any minute.”
I’m hoping our new mums group will be a nice diversion from Operation Double Knitting. I love the way we get different people using the café at different times; in the mornings, people on their way to work, like Maggie, or pensioners, out getting their shopping early. At lunchtimes there’s a nice mixture of mums meeting up for a coffee or people on their lunch breaks, and later in the afternoons we get the teenagers, on their way home from school, who come in to deconstruct their day; Betty says it reminds her of when Gran and her were young and they used to spend hours in the old coffee bar on the pier. But Mondays are my favorites, with all the new mums who met at childbirth classes. They come here once a week now, and sit in the workroom upstairs; there’s more space for the buggies and baby kit. It’s a hassle helping them up the stairs, but once they’re settled it’s fine, and quite a few of them have started knitting, so Elsie and I help out with that. Since I’m older than most of them, and have three kids, they seem to have rather sweetly adopted me as their amateur baby whisperer. Talk about the blind leading the blind.
Elsie’s even got over her initial horror at the prospect of them breast-feeding; they’re all very discreet, but there’s no way I’m making anyone go and sit in the loos to feed their babies, not in my shop. I’ve spent too long perched in cubicles myself to want to inflict that on anyone else.
“Hi Jo. Look, I finished it.”
Clare holds up the blanket she’s been making for Ava, who’s fast asleep in her buggy, wearing a very fetching pink and purple hat Clare knitted for her a few weeks ago.
“That’s great, Clare.”
“She loves it, it’s so soft, and it makes me feel like a proper mum, knitting things for her. What can I make next?”
I’m showing her some cardigan patterns while Helena gives everyone another one of her pep talks about the importance of reusable nappies.
“Dylan loves his nappies, and they’re really not that much trouble to wash.”
“They are if you’ve got mummy’s little helper adding crockery to your washing machine.”
Clare laughs. “Is she still doing that?”
“Yes, and I did try the reusable ones, Helena, but it was just one thing too many, having nappies soaking in a bucket. I know they’re a good idea, and I do recycle, as much as I can.”
Helena doesn’t look that impressed and starts telling us all about landfill sites and the water table. God, she can be tedious sometimes. She’s always banging on about something; last week it was the wonders of baby flash cards, to stimulate our budding Einsteins. She reminds me of all those mums in London, who used to make me feel like Jack was practically on the at-risk register because he wasn’t learning Japanese or special baby boffin maths. No wonder Dylan always looks so tense, although his eczema can’t help with that, poor little thing. I pass Clare the shade cards for the cardigan so she can choose the colors.
“I’m sure you’re right, Helena, but to be honest, I think we should sort out the big oil companies, and air travel, things that make a huge difference, before we start guilt-tripping mothers about nappies. Although obviously it’s much easier to guilt-trip mums. I know we should all be doing our bit, but until they stop making cars that go two hundred miles an hour when it’s illegal to go over seventy anywhere in the whole country, I think it’s okay for me to use disposable nappies.”
Lucy laughs as her son, Oliver, starts yelling and she lifts him out of his buggy. “I still can’t get him to go anywhere near four hours between feeds, you know. Three is my record so far. Do you think I’m missing something, Jo?”
“God, no. I don’t think breast-fed babies go that long between feeds, unless mine were just greedy. I don’t care what the books say, they don’t. It might be nature’s perfect design, but it was designed for mums who never put their babies down in case a woolly mammoth trod on them. Feeding them all the time wasn’t really a problem for them; you could still do the hunter-gatherer thing, and just shift the sling round.”
She smiles. “Oliver hates his sling. I got the one with the sheepskin and everything, but he hates it.”
“So did Archie, and Pearl. In fact, Pearl squawked so loudly, Jack made me promise I’d never try to put her in it again.”
“I can’t imagine how you cope with three.”
“I don’t. I just hang on in there and hope that one day soon they’ll all be big enough to make me breakfast in bed.”
They all smile, even Helena.
I think it’s important to try to be reassuring; I used to look at women with older babies when I had Jack, and wonder how they did it. They all seemed so capable, so much better at it than me. But actually there is something quite liberating about third babies; you still have the usual fog of exhaustion, and bliss, but at least you’re more prepared for it. I didn’t read any of the books with Pearl, I just didn’t have the time, so I went with the flow,
literally, since she fed pretty much nonstop for the first few weeks. And it did feel a lot less terrifying, less like you’ve wandered into completely new territory and nobody’s given you a map.
“Oh, look, they’re playing.”
We all watch Ruby and Oliver, who are sitting on their mums’ laps, smiling at each other. Ruby’s always been a smiley girl. It’s been lovely seeing them develop from tiny newborns, with unfathomable stares, to little smiling people starting to sit up. You’re so up close and personal with your own you don’t see it. Lucy kisses Oliver on the top of his head.
“How’s she doing at nights now, Nicky?”
Clare is still feeding Ava, who seems to have fallen asleep, but every time she tries to put her down she fusses.
“Better, well, a bit better. But as soon as I finish cooking our supper and sit down, she kicks off. I think it might be the cooking smells. We had salad the other night, just to see, and she was a bit better. We’ll have to barbecue all our stuff in the back garden if she carries on like this.”
We all smile.
“Try giving her one of those baby rusks, that should keep her quiet while you eat.”
“I might try that, Jo, because it’s really getting on my wick.”
There’s been a lot of talk about when to start on the baby rice. None of them are quite six months old yet, and the new rules say you have to wait six months before you start introducing solid food.
“When did you start Pearl on solids again, Jo?”
“Around four months, like I did with Jack and Archie. Mind you, that was Pearl’s idea really; she was helping herself to Jack’s mashed potato, so I missed out the tiny spoonfuls of baby rice thing. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d had to wait for six months. I think it depends on the baby. I mean obviously you have to be careful, but I reckon a bit of baby rice works wonders. It was the first time Archie ever slept for more than two hours.”
We’re all watching Ruby as she twists round and tries to grab a piece of a cake. Nicky kisses her on the cheek. “You might be right. She watches you sometimes like she’s starving. Phil won’t eat in front of her now; he says it puts him off.”
