by Gil McNeil
I’m trying to fix swathes of dark blue net into artistic waves. I’ve already got the silver net up, and the fronds of seaweed Laura knitted, in different shades of green, which are rather beautiful, so I’m trying to make sure they aren’t completely covered with the bloody net. But every time I get it into the right position, someone taps on the glass to say hello, and I have to start all over again. Clare has just held baby Ava up to do smiling and waving, which was sweet, but you do have to wave back unless you want to look like a total snooter. I need one of those curtains like the ones the big shops in London have when they’re doing their windows. Although round here, people would probably just come in and open them, so they could see what you were doing.
All the knitted fish are bobbing around on their nylon thread, looking very nautical, and I’ve knitted a couple of starfish to dot in among the pebbles and sand. The papier-mâché ones the boys made when we first moved down here are in the box ready to put out, along with the lobster and little crabs I knitted last year, although admittedly some are more crablike than others. Laura’s knitted some coral too, and a giant shell, in lovely shades of cream and gray, with a pale pink lining: she’s really getting into knitting things for the windows, and we’re taking pictures so she can put them in her Project folder for college. I’ll hang up the string of flags I knitted last year, in bright, jaunty colors, although Martin says he’s going to look them up in his new boat-owner semaphore book in case they’re signaling something rude. I’m not sure people actually do semaphore anymore, but if they do, at least he’s got the book. He better not let Elsie see it though, or she’ll be hoisting signals up for the entire town to see. Come home and get your washing. Have you got your coat on? That kind of thing.
“It looks great, Jo. I love those fish; they must have taken you ages.”
“Thanks, Laura, but the first year was the hardest; now I only have to add in a few new pieces, like your lovely coral.”
“My tutor said she might come in and have a look. Can I take some photos of the café window too?”
“Of course.”
I’ve already put the old cream jugs and the knitted roses in, and I’ll add in a few more woolen cakes and the bowl of knitted strawberries as the summer season really kicks off. Gran’s knitting some more sandwiches and some little fairy cakes, to go in the old wicker picnic hamper, and that got a lot of nice comments last year, particularly the woolly ham-and-egg pie, which took me bloody ages.
“I meant to say, Jo, I’ve had a think about it, and I’d love to, do the group I mean, if you’re still sure.”
I’ve asked Laura if she’ll run a beginners’ class on Saturdays for me. She’s got a real eye for color, but she’s also very gentle and patient, just the kind of person you want to start you off knitting. I need to get more classes going which don’t involve me having to be there every minute, especially at the weekends.
“You’ll be great, Laura, I know you will, and Elsie will be around, and Olivia too, she’s in on Saturdays, don’t forget. I usually nip in as well, if I can park the kids with Gran or Cinzia, and Tom’s happy to do the café as long as you’re around for the lunchtime rush. Let’s try Saturday afternoon, shall we, and see how many people sign up.”
“I’m really looking forward to it, and I can write it up for my course work, so that’ll be a real help. I’m a bit behind. I never get time in the evenings what with Rosie and everything, and my tutor says I need a lot more written stuff.”
“I’ve got some notes I did for the school knitting project, I’ll bring them in. There’s lots on the history of the Guilds, and all the different traditions of knitting socks and lace, and some great photographs.”
“That would be brilliant, thanks.”
We’re standing drinking tea with Gran and writing a notice for the board about the new class when Mrs. Marwell comes in.
“Hello Mary. We don’t see you behind the counter so much now. Hasn’t your Jo done well, I bet you’re pleased as punch. I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jo, can I have your autograph, for my book?”
Oh God, this is getting ridiculous.
“I like to get one from all the famous people in Broadgate. My book will be worth a few bob one day I shouldn’t wonder. Look, I’ve got Mr. Parsons from the ironmongers, and he stood next to Angela Rippon in a queue at Waterloo Station once. She always had such lovely outfits on when she read the news, and she was a lovely dancer, you know.”
“Right, well, that’s very kind, but—”
“When I was younger I used to go up to London, to the Palladium. There were proper stars in those days, and if you waited at the stage door they’d always take the trouble to sign your book for you. Give you a kiss too, if you were lucky. Not that I went in for that sort of thing, well, not much anyway, but I did have my moments.”
Gran smiles. “I bet you did, Florrie.”
Bless. Now we’ll have to look at the pages in her book with signatures from a load of people we’ve never heard of, although Gran might recognize a few.
“Let’s see, oh yes, he was one of my favorites.”
“Who’s that, Mrs. Marwell?”
“Frank Sinatra. And there’s Dean Martin. Such nice boys. Have you got a pen, dear? I’ve got one in here somewhere.”
Bloody hell. She starts unpacking her basket onto the counter, which I know from previous experience can take a while. Gran is looking at her feet, trying not to smile as a tin opener and a glove join the growing pile.
“I’ve got a pen, thanks, Mrs. Marwell, if you’re sure.”
“Oh right you are then. What’s that, on top of that box?”
“A starfish, for the window, the boys made it.”
“Did they? Well, isn’t that lovely. I didn’t know they were that purple color. Are you still doing your charity basket, dear?”
“Yes, we’ve moved it upstairs though, and it’s a bit of a mess up there.”
“Bit of a muddle never hurt anyone. I’ve got all sorts in my front room at home, but I like to have a few bits and pieces around me. Now, where did I put that? Here it is, I want to put this in, I never really liked the color, but it does knit up nicely. I just need a bit of green, to finish off the neckband of one of my sweaters for the orphans, poor little things. The church is sending off another parcel soon and I don’t like to let them down.”
“I’ll come up with you, Florrie, see what we can find.”
“Thanks Mary.”
Gran winks at me as they go upstairs. The charity basket was definitely one of my better ideas. People are pretty good about putting something in if they take anything out, oddments of wool left over, sometimes nearly a whole ball. I’ve put little plastic bags in too so things don’t get in a tangle, and we put old stock in, especially when we’re not reordering. Elsie likes having shelves full of bargain wool, but I think it looks tatty, so the charity option is much better. Mrs. Marwell buys a few new balls of wool for her sweater, and uses the basket for the contrast colors. She’s only got a small pension, and she’s knitting for charity, so it doesn’t seem right to make her pay more than she needs to. So everyone is happy; well, apart from Elsie.
Bloody hell, it’s five past three.
“I better go and get the boys, Laura, can you tell Gran?”
“Sure. She’ll probably be up there ages. I’ll keep an eye out for customers; the café’s pretty quiet. Who knew, though, Mrs. Marwell and Frank Sinatra?”
“I know. Still, it goes to show, you never can tell. Just because she gets her wheelie trolley stuck in the door doesn’t mean she didn’t go in for a fair bit of razzle-dazzle when she was younger.”
“Razzle-dazzle? I like the sound of that.”
“Me too.”
The sun is shining as I walk to school: Easter was freezing, and wet, but today it feels like summer might finally be on the way. We might be able to have a picnic at the weekend, after Mum arrives, and I can lock her in the beach hut if she gets too annoying.
Connie’s
in the playground, sitting on the bench under the chestnut tree. She looks tired; the combination of heartburn and the baby kicking is stopping her from getting much sleep. I’m so glad I’m not pregnant; one look at her and I remember just how knackering it was.
“How was last night?”
“Three weeks, with no sleeping. It is not possible.”
I think once the baby arrives she might find it is, but I want to be encouraging.
“Did you try the milk of magnesia?”
“Yes, and it helps. But then I lie down, and it does not.”
“Have you tried sleeping sitting up, sweetheart? It was the only way I got any proper sleep at all with Archie, and Pearl too come to think of it, in that old pink armchair I’ve got in the living room, the one with the roses. Nick hated it, he said they should call it bourgeois floral instead of Peony Parade, or whatever they called it in the shop, but it was worth every bloody penny. You’re welcome to try it if you like.”
She smiles. “If I don’t sleep tonight, then yes, I will.”
“Good.”
“Porca Madonna.”
Annabel is barreling across the playground toward us, with Mrs. Nelson in her wake.
“Christ, it must be serious if she needs backup.”
She’s clutching her clipboard and her fountain pen, which isn’t a good sign. She hasn’t actually spoken to me since the television thing, but she’s been giving me particularly furious looks for the last few days, so I’m pretty sure she saw it.
“Afternoon, ladies. I just wanted a little word about the Summer Fayre, although I do realize Mrs. Maxwell is likely to be otherwise engaged with her happy event.”
She pauses and glances at Connie’s tummy, and then looks away, as if she’s just seen something unpleasant.
“But if you did a knitting stall, Mrs. Mackenzie, I’m sure that would be popular.”
A knitting stall: is she mad?
“I’m so busy at the moment, Annabel. I really don’t think I could manage a whole stall. Are any of the other local shops doing stalls this year?”
She looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. Which I would be if I agreed to run a stall at her bloody fayre. Connie and I already got stuck doing the White Elephant a couple of years back, standing in the boiling heat trying to flog a load of old tat. Never again.
“People are always so generous. I’m sure you want to do everything you can to support our school.”
Connie stands up. “Yes, we do, with the walking bus, and with all the other things, but so. Enough. We will come to the fayre, and we will buy things, like the other people do.”
Mrs. Nelson looks rather pale now, but Annabel isn’t going to be diverted so easily.
“Of course I quite understand how busy you are, running your little businesses. Sometimes I don’t know how I fit everything in, being President of the PTA does take an awful lot of my time, but of course I am lucky enough not to have to work.”
She pauses, and Mrs. Nelson gives her a simpering smile.
“If you can’t do a stall, then I’m sure you’ll both want to join our Auction of Promises? It’s such a super idea; we’ll be sending round a leaflet. I’ve already arranged for my tennis coach to offer an hour’s tuition, and he does get terribly booked up. Perhaps you can offer a meal in your restaurant, Mrs. Maxwell.”
“I will talk to Mark, and we will see.”
Lucky enough not to have to work? God, she’s annoying.
“And I did want to mention”—she’s looking rather pointedly at me now—“if our local celebrity wanted to join in our little auction, that would add a great deal of excitement. Perhaps a lunch, or dinner of course. And may I just say, strictly entre nous, I can guarantee that there would be a very respectable bid. I’ve already spoken to my husband, and we’d be very happy to contribute most generously.”
Mrs. Nelson nods encouragingly.
I think the plan is for me to persuade Grace to be auctioned, like that’s ever going to happen in a million years, and then Annabel will make her husband put in a hefty bid, and bingo, Annabel gets to have lunch with Grace, and can boast about it to all of her friends at the bloody Tennis Club. Oh dear. I may have just found yet another way to annoy her. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound as Gran would say. I might as well enjoy it.
“That’s so sweet of you, Annabel, really, I’m very touched, but I don’t think I could do anything like that. People would think I was getting above myself. It was only one little television interview after all, I’m sure nobody would want to have lunch with me.”
“I didn’t mean, well, I was rather hoping . . .”
She glares at Connie, who is trying not to laugh, and Mrs. Nelson coughs nervously before she rallies.
“I think Mrs. Morgan was thinking of Grace Harrison, although of course I’m sure people would, it’s just, or perhaps Ellen Malone, she’s a friend of yours, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she’s Archie’s godmother.”
Annabel stiffens. She’s not keen on any of my children, but if she had to pick the most annoying one, she’d definitely choose Archie. To be fair, I think we all would.
“I could ask her, I suppose.”
Mrs. Nelson nods encouragingly.
“But I have to say I think it’s a nonstarter. Definitely for Grace. I happen to know her diary is completely full. And as for Ellen, well, I know she doesn’t do things like that, she gets so many requests, I’m sure you understand. No, I think I should probably say no, there’s no point in wasting everybody’s time, is there? Look, Connie, the kids are coming out, and Nelly’s got a Gold Sticker, she must have done one of her lovely paintings, they had art this afternoon, didn’t they? Unless Archie has just painted his face green for fun.”
Archie is swinging his lunch box around above his head, with a large splodge of green paint on his chin.
“Hello darling, did you have a lovely day?”
“Yes, we had a spelling test and I came top. Of the whole class. It was great.”
He glances at Annabel and gives her one of his Best Smiles. Oh dear.
“Harry did good too, just not as good as me or Nelly. But we’re in the top group, on the acorn table. Harry’s only a walnut. Acorn is top for spelling. What’s for tea, Mum? I’m starving.”
I think we better beat a hasty retreat, before she demands a recount on the spelling test. Or implodes, and we all get to learn some new words.
Connie and I are laughing so much on the walk home she has to sit down in the park so she can get her breath back.
“Her face, it was so. So.”
“Gobsmacked.”
“Yes. And it is serving her right, horrible woman.”
“Who’s horrible, Mum?”
“Nobody, love, and Archie, did you really come top in spelling?”
“Yes.”
“That’s very good, love.”
“Well, I did have the spellings in my book; I just forgot to turn the page over.”
“Archie, that’s terrible. That’s cheating.”
“No it’s not, I know them. Go on, test me, I bet I know them.”
“I will, later, and you better know them, Archie, or we’ll have to talk to Mrs. Berry.”
“I already told her, and she said I was very good for being truthful, and because I’m so good at spelling, this time she’ll make a reception.”
“Exception.”
“Yes, so it’s fine.”
“It is not fine. And you must never do it again, Archie.”
“All right, keep your hair on.”
“And don’t say that either.”
“Why not? It’s not swearing, it’s not like saying—”
“Archie, that’s enough, thank you. Pick your bag up, it can’t stay there. We need to get home, Cinzia and Pearl will be waiting. Come back with us for a cup of tea, Con. You can try out that chair, give it a test run.”
Archie ignores his bag and runs off to join the others on the swings.
I pick
the bag up, and Connie smiles. “He is so, your Archie. So.”
“I know, Con, thanks. Trust me. I know.”
“He will go far.”
“I’m sure he will, but I pity the person who has to run along behind him picking all his things up.”
Cinzia is nattering away in Italian to Connie while I make the tea. Tom’s Plan B seems to be slowly having an effect. Connie says she went out with the new French boy, but only for a coffee, and apparently he was too French, so now she’s keen on a German student called Sebastian. It’s like she’s doing her very own version of the Grand Tour, only instead of crates full of paintings and marble statues, she’s collecting admirers. But I think Tom is still the favorite, so maybe he’s on the right track after all. Although she’s due to go home at the end of the year, so it’s not going to be a very long track.
She’s looking particularly gorgeous today, in a short summer frock over pale pink leggings, which on anyone else would make their legs look like uncooked sausages, but on her look rather fetching. And if there’s a chance Tom will be around, her outfits definitely get tighter and skimpier. She caused another stir at baby gymnastics last week, according to Tina. And Mr. Dawes has only just stopped limping.
“Cinzia, do you want tea or juice, love?”
“Juice please, I’ll get some for the kidlings too.”
“Great.”
“Cup.”
Pearl’s joining in with the Italian, waving her hands and having a lovely time, while she plays with the plastic tea set I bought at the weekend at the Brownies’ jumble sale. I can’t wait for her to be a Brownie; Mum wouldn’t let me join. She said the uniform was too depressing.
Once everyone has had a drink, Cinzia takes them outside to stroke Peter Rabbit, while Connie tries out the famous armchair, and promptly falls asleep. She looks so peaceful I close the curtains and the door to the kitchen. I’m trying to get everyone to keep quiet, which is a Mission Completely Bloody Impossible, and then Martin arrives with Trevor the Wonder Dog, and the inevitable football game is launched. Peter’s safely back in his hutch, and miraculously Connie’s still asleep when I check on her, which just goes to show how utterly exhausted she is; nobody but a heavily pregnant, sleep-deprived woman could sleep through the kind of racket the kids and Trevor are making.
