Knit One Pearl One

by Gil McNeil

  “There you go then. Give her a plastic spoon and she’ll be away, eating your supper before you know it.”

  She laughs.

  “I’m going downstairs for another coffee, anyone want anything?”

  “Do you have any peppermint tea, Jo?”

  “I think so, Helena. I’ll come down with you, Nicky. I know we’ve got lemon, or green tea, or rose hip if you prefer?”

  “Lemon would be lovely.”

  I knew those glass teapots would come in handy.

  We’re halfway home after school when I realize Archie is walking rather oddly, and on closer inspection, it turns out he’s wearing two left shoes, and someone else has gone home in two right ones.

  Jack is delighted. “He doesn’t get a sticker for that, does he, Mum?”

  “Be quiet, Jack. Archie, you must know who you were sitting next to after PE.”

  “Well I don’t.”

  I still can’t work out how he managed to put on someone else’s shoe; it’s the same color, but it’s entirely different. Archie’s got two Velcro straps on his, and this one only has one.

  Bugger. I’ll have to ring round; I wonder if Jane has everyone’s phone numbers at home. I’ve only got some of them.

  “Honestly, Archie, you need to be more careful. Come on, let’s get home and I’ll try to find out who’s got your other shoe.”

  He’s walking like a duck. Things must be so simple on Planet Boy. Two left shoes, just waddle home and your mum will sort it.

  Jack’s walking like a duck now too.

  “Stop it, Jack.”

  “No, he likes it, don’t you, Arch? Don’t be so grumpy, Mum, he didn’t do it on purpose. Grump, grump, grump.”

  “Gump.”

  Great, another new word for Pearl.

  Jake Palmer’s mum rings as soon as we get in, and luckily Jake isn’t quite as dopey as Archie and remembered who he sat next to while they were getting dressed. Still dopey enough to go home in the wrong shoes though.

  “Shall we do a swap tomorrow morning then, Jo?”

  “Good idea.”

  “You wouldn’t credit it though, would you? How could they not have noticed? I wouldn’t mind but Jake’s are a size smaller than your Archie’s. Boys are hopeless, aren’t they?”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve got two of them.”

  “I’m not sure I could do that. At least with my Charlotte she always comes home with the right shoes on, although the fuss she makes about her clothes drives me mad. I suppose it’s all swings and roundabouts being a mum, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, where you end up dizzy and all the money falls out of your pockets.”

  She laughs. “That sounds about right.”

  “What’s for tea, Mum?”

  “Omelets and salad?”

  “Yuck.” Archie’s making being sick noises.

  “Or scrambled eggs on toast, if people eat a small bowl of salad first.”

  “Scrambled eggs with cheese?”

  “Yes, or not for people who don’t like cheese.”

  “Jack, she says we don’t have to have omelets.”

  There’s a cheer from the living room, and Pearl claps her hands, and then trots off down the hall, only to return with one of my flip-flops, which she puts into the washing machine. How helpful.

  It’s half past nine on the night before Archie’s party, and I’m trying to finish the party bags. There’s no need to spend a fortune like the mums did in London; we keep things fairly simply round here, thank God. So I’ve got some little packets of sweets and a magic wand each, and a magic writing pen with invisible ink, along with a bath bomb, which fizzes in the water, and a tiny flannel, which unfurls into a normal-size one. I’m hoping these will be popular with the parents. Perhaps I should write a little note and pop it in each bag: “I’m sorry your child is covered in ice cream, but there’s a flannel in the party bag.” Martin should be here any minute, he’s putting the finishing touches to the hutch, and then Gran and Reg will be round at the crack of dawn in the morning with the rabbit. Martin’s bringing fish and chips, and I’m starving. I should have eaten with the kids, but I’m trying to avoid having two suppers, however tempting, or I’ll have to buy new jeans again.

  The phone rings just as I’m thinking about making an emergency sandwich.

  “Hi Jo. Look, I’m sorry about this, but I think I’m going to have to bring the hutch round first thing in the morning. I’m not quite finished. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. Are you on your way now?”

  “Well, no, there’s a bit of a problem with that. I’ve got a bit behind with the laundry, so I’ve got nothing to wear.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I was round at the boatyard, and well, to cut a long story short, I fell in, and before you ask, Trevor was at home. I just tripped, that’s all.”

  “You tripped?”

  “Yes. And stop laughing.”

  “I’m trying not to, I really am. Shame you weren’t wearing your new anorak.”

  “Shut up.”

  Elsie’s bought him an oceangoing anorak; it’s bright orange and looks like it would turn into a life raft given half a chance.

  “I’m just saying, you could have tried it out, seen if it really was waterproof.”

  “Yes, thank you. Don’t tell her, will you; I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Okay, I promise. What are you wearing now then?”

  “Is this going to be one of those rude phone calls? I’ve never done one of those.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Shall we give it a go?”

  We both laugh.

  “Seriously, what are you wearing?”

  “Shorts, it’s the only thing I could find, and that sweater Mum knitted me.”

  “The one with the stripes in all those different colors?”

  “Yes. I bet you’re glad I didn’t turn up now. The problem was there was so much mud, my jeans were covered in it, and by the time I’d sorted them out I’d soaked my spare pair too. I must get a dryer.”

  “Martin, you haven’t even got the washing machine plumbed in yet.”

  “I’ve got a sink though. And stuff dries pretty quickly in front of the fire.”

  “I’ll get you a mangle and then you can do the whole Victorian laundry maid thing. I’ll get you some carbolic soap too if you like.”

  “Thanks, I knew I could count on you to make me feel better.”

  “You can always bring your washing round here, if you don’t mind the occasional item of crockery in with your delicates. Although she seems to be moving on to shoes now.”

  “I don’t have delicates, at least not the way I do the washing, and anyway, I’m not entirely useless, you know. I’ve got a system, it’s just I got a bit behind this week.”

  “You mean Elsie didn’t pick up your dirty washing and return it neatly folded.”

  “Basically, yes. I’m sorry about supper though, I was looking forward to it.”

  Not as much as I was.

  “Never mind, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, Martin . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Get your washing tub ready. It’s a kids’ party, with ice cream, so whatever you wear will probably need a rinse when you get home.”

  “You can get enough of sarcastic women, you know.”

  “Can you?”

  “Not tonight apparently. But I’ll let you know.”

  “Night, Martin.”

  It’s half past four on Sunday afternoon, and the party’s in full swing. Archie insisted on only inviting boys, apart from Nelly and Pearl, and they’re all having a marvelous time constructing ice cream sundaes, with Tom and Cinzia handing out the chocolate flakes, mini-sprinkles, and assorted sweets, including jelly babies and chocolate buttons. I’ve avoided nuts, not that any of them are allergic, as far as I know, but this would be the perfect moment to find out. We’ve got chocolate sauce, and strawberry and t
offee, and I’ve also bought a couple of cans of that horrible squirty aerosol cream, which the boys love. Tom is giving Cinzia very longing looks in between passing out the flakes, and trying to grab the cream back off Archie. He’s been on two proper dates with her now, according to Connie, so I’m still expecting a visit from a large group of irate Italians.

  Gran’s made mini-sandwiches, and I’ve done sausages on sticks, so we’ve made a token effort to balance out all the sugar, and we’ve had two rounds of pass the parcel and a rather brutal session of musical chairs, just to get everyone in the party mood. Alan the magician is sorting out his equipment upstairs in the workroom; he understandably chose to avoid performing his magic show in full view of the High Street through the café windows, so Reg is upstairs lighting the fire. Apparently Alan’s got a special powder to throw on it at a crucial moment, which makes a loud bang and produces lots of green smoke, so I’m hoping Elsie isn’t upstairs for that bit, or Gran either, come to think of it.

  “Shall we do the cake now?”

  “Yes, Con, that would be great.”

  “He will love it, I think. It has the rabbit, in icing. Wait until you see.”

  “Thank Mark again, will you? It’s such a shame he couldn’t get away.”

  “Yes, but this evening we are closed, in the restaurant, so he will be fine. I want to talk to him about the room for the baby, but he doesn’t know yet. If he did, I think he would be going out.”

  “I’ll help if you like. I’m quite good at wallpapering now after I did our hall. Well, if you don’t look too closely.”

  I’m trying to wipe ice cream off Pearl’s face, ready for Reg to take the photos, when Gran dims the lights and Cinzia carries in the cake, with the eight candles. Archie’s thrilled, and sits looking very pleased as we sing “Happy Birthday” and he blows the candles out.

  “I get the first bit, Mum, and then Jack, because he’s my brother.”

  “Okay love.”

  “And then Pearly, and then you.”

  “Bless him; he says the nicest things sometimes, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, Gran.”

  “And, Mum.”

  “Yes Archie.”

  “Only give Jason Lenning a small bit, because he shoved me right off that chair, and I was nearly winning. And can we take some home for my new rabbit?”

  “I’m not sure rabbits like cake, love.”

  “I bet he does. He’s going to be a magic rabbit, I’ve told you, Mum, and I bet they like cake.”

  “I still think they prefer carrots, however magic they are.”

  The magic show is a huge success, and despite his lack of a catchy stage name, Alan does us proud. Long silk scarves appear and disappear, and giant chocolate coins pop out from behind the birthday boy’s ear before the card tricks receive a rapturous reception. The indoor fireworks produce a thrilling series of bangs and showers of colored sparks, and the special powder in the fire makes such a huge bang that Archie jumps about three foot off the floor, as does Elsie. She’s been hovering with a damp flannel in case anyone with sticky fingers touched any of the stock, but even she’s been pretty transfixed.

  Cinzia is kissing Pearl, with Tom watching her devotedly.

  Connie mutters something in Italian.

  “What?”

  “He needs not to be so, how do you say?”

  “Lovesick?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Poor boy.”

  “Yes, and poor Aunt Lucia when she finds out her daughter only wants the older men. She was telling me, she thinks they are better.”

  “It doesn’t bear thinking about it, does it, when Nelly and Pearl are that age?”

  “No, I hope this one will be a boy. One daughter will be enough, I think, for my nerves.” She pats her tummy.

  “But as long as everything is okay, I don’t mind. But I wish it was tomorrow. It is so much longer this time.”

  “It better not be tomorrow, we haven’t done the wallpapering yet.”

  “Great party, Jo.”

  “Thanks, Tom.”

  He sighs. “I think I might need to shake things up a bit with Cinzia. I might have overplayed my hand a bit.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Time for Plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “Go cool. Don’t return her texts, drives them mad.”

  I think Cinzia might give him a run for his money on that one, but let’s see. I’m not going to tell him she’s already announced she only likes older men.

  She’s putting Pearl down now, and walking over to us.

  “Right, I’m off then. Start as I mean to go on sort of thing.”

  “Thanks Tom. Beyond the call of duty to come and help, but I’m really glad you did.”

  “No, I enjoyed it. Bye, Cinzia. I’m a bit busy next week, but I’ll call you, okay?”

  He winks at me and Connie as he leaves. Cinzia looks puzzled. Maybe he’s not quite as daft as I thought.

  “Thank you too, Cinzia, for helping with the party.”

  “I have loved it. An English birthday party.”

  “We don’t always have quite so much ice cream.”

  “Look at the Principessa, she is dancing.”

  Pearl is bobbing round in a circle, wearing her tiara.

  “She looks like Philippe, he is terrible at dancing. But he has the eyes. So the dancing is not so much.”

  “Who’s Philippe?”

  “He is French, at my course.”

  Connie smiles. “But Tom, he is nicest, yes?”

  Cinzia shrugs. “He is okay, but now he is too young. Philippe is older, and French.”

  Poor Tom.

  “Thanks Mum, it was my best party ever. And I think I’ve decided on my name for my rabbit. I want to call him Peter. The magic man said you don’t want anything fancy for rabbits, you have to keep it simple.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. And his rabbit is called Peter, and he can do magic, with the hat and stuff.”

  Thank God we haven’t got a top hat, or the poor thing would probably find itself spending quite a bit of time stuck inside it.

  “All right.”

  Peter Rabbit it is then. I’m going to feel like I’m channeling Beatrix Potter every time I feed it. Knowing my luck, Jack will start lobbying for a hedgehog, and we’ll be Mrs. Tiggy-Winkling before we know it. And I’ll be the horrible Mr. McGregor chasing everyone round the garden. I’ll probably end up with busloads of Japanese tourists coming round to photograph our pets.

  “I’m going to be a magic man when I grow up, Mum.”

  “Are you, Archie, that’s nice.”

  It’ll probably come in handy if he knows a few diverting tricks when Jack tells people he called his rabbit Peter.

  “Come on then, let’s get home and you can open the rest of your presents.”

  “Yes, and Mum, I need a top hat, to practice my tricks.”

  “I think you have to start with simpler tricks than that, Archie.”

  He tuts.

  By the time it’s finally Wednesday morning, I’ve gone off the whole idea of the television thing, and I’m seriously thinking about going home and hiding. Gran and Reg and Elsie have been in the shop since dawn cleaning and fussing, and Cinzia’s raced back from the school run and is lurking before she takes Pearl to baby gym, hoping for her three minutes of fame. It’s only a quarter to ten and I’m already exhausted. Even Pearl has picked up on the tension and is throwing a mini-strop because she wants to go upstairs. But Elsie’s just finished hoovering up there, so I don’t want Pearl rearranging things.

  “Cinzia, maybe you should take her to her class now?”

  She pretends she hasn’t heard me.

  Actually, I’ve just had a brilliant idea. I’ll go to baby gym with Pearl and leave them all to it.

  “They’ll still be here later, Cinzia, I promise.”

  Just when I think things can’t get any tenser, a huge white outside broadcast van pulls up outs
ide, blocking the High Street, even though they’re meant to be parking in the lane behind the shop. I’m giving them directions when Ellen arrives in a swish silver car with a driver, and her producer, Scott, who is looking as nervous as I feel.

  “Hello darling. Why is the truck here, Scott?”

  “I’m not sure, I’ll just—”

  “It’s fine, Ellen, they’re just about to move.”

  “Well make sure they don’t park in the wrong fucking street, would you, Scott? I’ll be with Jo. I need a coffee. Come on, darling, let’s get inside.”

  “Gran and Reg are here, and Elsie, and they’re a bit excited. Just so you know.”

  “They’ll be fine. We’ll film them for background shots and then they can relax. Sweet windows, I love the little flowers.”

  “They’re primroses, Elsie made them.”

  “So they are. You look brilliant, by the way; the skirt suits you. Are those the boots we bought last year?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, they look great. Once we get some makeup on you, you’ll look fabulous.”

  “I’m wearing makeup.”

  “Yes, for normal life, darling. Not a six-foot HD telly.”

  “Thanks a lot, that really helps.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve brought Elaine, she’ll sort you out. She does all my makeup, and she’s a genius.”

  “She’s going to have to be.”

  “Your hair looks nice. Top marks, darling.”

  Tina did it for me yesterday, so it’s a bit sleeker than usual, and I hope my dark green velvet skirt and the cardigan I knitted in the pretty catkin color look okay with my best cream silk shirt. I looked all right at seven o’clock this morning, but I still feel wildly underdressed compared to Ellen. And Grace hasn’t arrived yet, which will ramp up the fashion gorgeousness to a whole new level.

  “Morning, my dear. Left the dogs at home, thought they might get in the way, shall I go through? Sit at any table, is that the drill?”

  Great. Lady Denby has arrived. Just what we need. She must have a network of spies; she always seems to know about anything remotely exciting happening in the town.