by Gil McNeil
“Isn’t that nice? Shall we have a tidy-up then? We should take this lovely box up to the office; don’t want anyone seeing it and asking questions, do we? You can plant them all out in your garden, dear; they’ll look lovely. I’ll just give the counter a polish. If we’ve got the press in, we want it looking nice, don’t we?”
“Thanks Elsie.”
Bloody hell. Double bloody hell actually, we’ve just got rid of the woman from the local paper when another one arrives, from a Kent paper I’ve never heard of, and I’m on the phone to someone else asking for a quote. I’m giving him the lines Maxine told me to say when I rang her to thank her for the flowers. We’re delighted at such happy news but have no further information. In other words, we have no snippets, now bugger off.
“So last time you saw her, how was she?”
“Thanks so much for calling.”
“I could come down and do a piece on your shop; we’d pay you for your time, and put a link to your website in the paper, which would be great for your business.”
“That’s very kind, but no thanks.”
“I might be able to get my editor to agree to—”
“Look, thanks for calling, but I really need to go now.”
I press the call waiting button on the phone; it’s so much easier to end a call by pressing a button rather than actually putting the phone down. You feel more like a busy person and less like someone just being rude.
Elsie’s talking to a young man who has just come in.
“We never discuss our customers, confidentiality is very important to us.”
“In a wool shop?”
“Yes, dear, this is a wool shop, I’m glad you noticed. So if you’re not going to be buying anything, I shall have to ask you to leave. I can’t have you annoying my regular customers.”
Elsie escorts him to the door. He seems rather surprised to be ejected from a wool shop so firmly by a middle-aged woman wearing such a tragic cardigan.
“Well done, Elsie, that was great.”
“I wish your gran was here, and Betty; they’d have loved all this, wouldn’t they? We could text them, you know, on your phone. Jeffrey was showing me how to do it on his new one, after that stupid dog broke his old one. You can send all sorts, you know, pictures and everything, and Reg has got a proper mobile phone, hasn’t he, I know your gran never got one.”
“Yes, I think so. Maybe later, Elsie.”
Poor Reg. I think he might be getting a fair few texts from Elsie over the next few days.
The mums are starting to arrive for their group, and Elsie helps Helena upstairs with Dylan’s buggy. The phone rings again, and I repeat the same drill as a young woman I haven’t seen before comes in. Elsie comes back down and keeps a close eye on her while I answer the phone again. God, this is getting annoying.
“Aren’t they terrible? Why can’t they just leave her alone? It’s nobody’s business but hers, is it?”
The young woman has come up to the counter with an armful of balls of wool and is smiling at Elsie. “It must be so awful, having them all descending on her like that. But it must help having people like you, people she can trust. How much is this, it’s such a pretty color.”
I can see Elsie is falling for this routine and is about five seconds away from getting her album out. I step forward, slightly blocking Elsie’s way.
“Six pounds ninety-five, and it knits up beautifully.”
“Does it? How many balls would I need to make this gorgeous shawl?”
“About ten.”
Actually the pattern only takes six, but since I’m pretty sure this will be going on expenses and she’s got no intention of casting on a single stitch, I don’t really care.
“I love all the colors.”
I smile at her, but I didn’t work in television news for so long without being able to spot other journalists on a story; she must think I’m a total idiot. She’s scruffy, but in an expensive way, and she’s got the look, there’s a steeliness to her eyes. I’m sure she thinks she’s being very clever, dressing down and dealing with the locals, but she’d stitch you up like a kipper in ten seconds.
She smiles back at me. “You seem very familiar, have I seen you on the telly or something?”
Bingo. I knew it.
“I don’t think so.”
“Is this hard to make?”
“Not really.”
The pattern is fairly tricky, but since she’s not going to be knitting, it won’t matter.
“You’ve got such a lovely café, I might treat myself.”
She’s doing lots of smiling, but the smiles don’t reach her eyes.
“Will you want needles?”
“Sorry?”
“To knit with?”
“Oh yes, of course. Great.”
I put the needles into the bag.
“That’ll be seventy-eight forty-eight please.”
She hands her card over and taps in her number.
“Thank you, here’s your receipt, I hope you enjoy your knitting.”
“Thank you, I’m sure I will. I don’t suppose you see her very often, do you?”
“Sorry, who?”
She’s getting annoyed now. “Grace Harrison.”
“No, hardly ever.”
“Her little girl looked lovely, in those pictures. What’s her name again?”
Elsie stiffens; I think she’s finally worked out what’s going on.
“Thanks again for coming in, but we must get on.”
“I think it was Lily. She looked so sweet, she had a little cardigan on, I remember thinking how gorgeous it was. I bet Grace made it for her. If you’ve got the pattern, I’d buy that too, and the wool, my niece would love it. I could buy loads of stuff, if you’d like to make some suggestions?”
Actually, sod this. I’ve had enough.
“Which paper do you work for?”
“What?”
“I just wondered.”
She glares at me. It’s quite scary actually.
“All that stuff on the telly, about you being friends, that was all fake, was it? I might write my piece on that, how you were lying and she doesn’t know you, just another wannabe. Or you could tell me your side of the story.”
“There’s no story, no side. We’re delighted with the happy news. But aren’t you supposed to say your name and the name of the newspaper you work for, if you’re asking for a quote?”
“Fuck off.”
That’ll definitely be one of the tabloids then.
“I don’t think you know her at all, and that’s what I’m going to write. You’ll seriously wish you’d given me a quote. I’ll make you a laughingstock.”
“Good luck with that.”
She hesitates. “Good luck with what?”
“Writing a libelous piece. I think Ms. Harrison’s lawyers are pretty fierce, aren’t they? And so are mine. My friend Ellen Malone has sorted me out with some firm in London. Always suing the papers for a fortune. So you go for it. Only do it from outside my shop, would you?”
She slams the door as hard as she can as she goes out, and one of the teddy bears falls off the shelf in the window.
Charming.
“Good heavens.”
Elsie’s very shocked. Actually, I’m a bit wobbly too. It’s years since I’ve had to deal with people like her. I’d forgotten how stroppy they get when they don’t find what they want; they seem to think the whole world is just waiting for them to write their grubby little pieces.
“How did you know, dear?”
“She was far too pleased with herself, that kind of journalist always is, they think they’re superior to the rest of us. The good ones are much cleverer than that though, or busy writing real stories. This isn’t that big a deal or they’d have sent someone senior. Not unless the dad turns out to be someone interesting.”
“And is he someone interesting, dear? I mean, of course, don’t say if you—”
“Elsie, if I knew, I wouldn’t tell y
ou, and I don’t. Can’t you see how it’s better not to know? Even if you do.”
“Yes, I suppose I can. Well, I call that shocking, coming in here and lying like that. She was like butter wouldn’t melt, and all the time— Well, just think, if we’d said anything, Lord alone knows what she would have written. I’m so glad I didn’t show her my album now.”
So am I.
“I think I’ll go upstairs now, if you’re sure you can cope for a bit.”
“Of course dear. They’ll be back outside on the pavement very sharpish if any more of them come in.”
I think she’s got it now.
“Thanks Elsie.”
Great. So far, so good on Operation Custard Cream. I’ll call Max and report in later, but I think we’ve handled it fairly well so far and nobody will be demanding their squirrel back. Christ.
Clare and Nicky are full of the news about Grace.
“I think it’s lovely. Tell her, Jo, if she wants to join our group, we’d love to see her.”
“Thanks Clare, I will.”
She grins. “We can hold the baby for her, while she gets on with her knitting. Although she probably has staff for things like that, doesn’t she?”
We all agree that having a full complement of domestic staff would make our lives a great deal better, and Nicky says her mum comes round once a week, at half past seven in the morning so she can have a lie-in, and we all decide she deserves a Top Mother of the Year award and if someone doesn’t give her one we’ll knit one for her. Be far more useful than a badge with “Get a Life” on it. Helena is slightly irritated by all the talk about Grace and tries to move on to a conversation about the wonders of having a compost heap, but then Dylan gets bored and starts yelling.
“I better go. He’s finding group activities rather challenging at the moment.”
Clare and Nicky exchange amused glances.
“I’ll take the buggy down for you, Helena.”
“Thanks Jo.”
“Anyone want more cake while I’m downstairs?”
There’s a chorus of “Yes please,” including what sounds like a yes from baby Ava.
Clare smiles, looking very proud. “She loves cake.”
Great. That’s another new customer sorted then, and hopefully with better language skills than the last one who I’ve just thrown out of the shop. You win some, you lose some, I suppose. And to be honest, Ava is much more my kind of girl.
It’s Saturday morning, and we’re officially launching Martin’s boat.
“I name this boat the Broadgate Belle.”
Everyone claps as Harry sprays Martin with fizzy apple juice. Elsie stands well back. She’s worn her best navy suit, with a hat, and she’s loved doing the Regal thing naming the boat; it’s all we’ve heard about, for days.
We’re standing on the dockside in the harbor, and Martin’s strung bunting up and polished everything so the whole boat looks gleaming in the sunshine. Elsie’s made new blue and white striped cushions for inside the little cabin, and new curtains in the same material, and Martin’s looking very pleased with himself, wearing the new captain’s hat I bought for him as a joke. Even Trevor’s behaving himself, looking every inch the nautical dog, with a blue and white spotted scarf tied round his neck.
“Right, come on, Mum, let’s get you onboard.”
He holds out a hand, and Elsie steps across.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right, Ellen?”
The thought of Pearl and Fast Eddie on the deck of a small boat is too much for all of us, so Ellen and Harry are taking them for a tour round the shops.
“Of course. Pearl, sweetheart, do you want to come with your aunty Ellen and see if we can find some ice cream?”
Pearl claps her hands. “More.”
“Thanks Ellen, we’ll see you later. Come on, boys, and hold Martin’s hand.”
“I’ve got the lifeboat on speed dial, darling.”
“Very funny.”
It’s lovely chugging round the bay on a dead calm day. It’s warm in the sunshine, and Martin’s letting the boys have a go at steering, while Elsie and I sit watching.
“So what do you think, Mum?”
“It’s very nice, Martin, and you’ve made a proper job of it, I’ll say that for you. The boys look very smart in their life jackets. Sensible of you, to think of that.”
Actually, that was me, but never mind. I’m putting more sunscreen on Archie while Martin tries to fend off a rather persistent wasp. In fact, there’ve been quite a few wasps buzzing round him since we left the dock.
“You don’t normally get wasps at sea, do you, Martin?”
“No, not usually.”
He’s waving his arms about, which is making Trevor bark.
“Maybe it’s all that apple juice you’re wearing?”
“Well, I wish they’d bloody pack it in.”
Archie’s thrilled. “Martin said bloody.”
“I know, Archie, he’s very naughty. Let’s have a mutiny and make him walk the plank.”
Martin laughs, and even Elsie’s smiling.
“There’s no need for language, Martin. I’ve got some wipes in my bag; here, use one of these.”
I wonder how old your son has to be before you can stop carrying wet wipes in your handbag; if Elsie’s anything to go by, it looks like I’ve got a few years yet.
“Thanks Mum. And nobody is going to make me walk the plank on my boat, thanks very much.”
“Don’t you be so sure, my boy. If anyone can it’s our Jo; you should have seen her with that horrible woman from the papers.”
Elsie’s still telling everyone about the journalist in the shop, even if they’ve heard the story before, quite a few times. She didn’t write anything in the end; none of them did really, apart from a few wool-shop-owner-delighted lines in the local paper. Maxine was very impressed.
Martin grins. “I know, Mum, she’s a marvel. How was Grace when you saw her, Jo? There were still quite a few photographers parked outside when I drove past last night.”
“Very happy, and they’re doing something this weekend, I think, so they’ll all get their pictures and then they’ll leave her alone. Oh, and that reminds me, Elsie, we’ll need to get a move on with that order, for the Italian silk and cashmere, because she’s off soon, for a couple of weeks in France, I think, or maybe Italy, she hasn’t decided yet. Anyway, she wants to take some knitting with her, she’s really getting into it again. We’ll have to call that company in Milan again.”
“I’ll call them first thing on Monday. Will your Cinzia be around, so she can do the talking?”
“Yes, she should be, good plan.”
“Can’t it go any faster, Martin?”
“No Arch, it’s not a speedboat, it’s a fishing boat.”
“Can we come fishing with you, later?”
Martin is taking his dad and Harry fishing this evening, but I’d quite like to see how he manages the boat on longer trips before he takes the boys out. Heading out to sea in the dark is a bit different from a tour of Broadgate Bay when it’s dead flat and sunny.
“No Archie, he can’t. Not tonight, but soon, okay? Does anyone want a drink?”
Elsie stands up. “I’ll make us a cup of tea. I’ve brought fresh milk in my thermos, and there’s water in the kitchenette, isn’t there, Martin?”
“Yes Mum, and it’s a galley.”
“I won’t be a minute.” She goes into the cabin, humming.
“She’s loving that galley, Martin.”
“I know. She’s even given me a special washing-up brush, and I haven’t even got one of those at the barn.”
“You haven’t really got a sink yet though, have you?”
“True, but that old tin bath is brilliant; it’s multipurpose. I even gave Trevor a bath in it last night. And I’ll be starting on the kitchen soon, now the boat is sorted.”
“Well, it is lovely, the boat, and she’s right, you’ve done a great job. I’ll knit you a proper fisherman�
��s sweater if you like. I was looking in one of my books, and they used to make them with special family designs on, so they could recognize them if— Well, never mind. But they looked very nice.”
He laughs. “Recognize the body if they got washed overboard. Lovely. For God’s sake, don’t tell Mum.”
“I could knit you one with a message of my very own.”
“Like?”
“I told him not to get a boat.”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
He leans forward and kisses me, and Archie makes pretending-to-be-sick noises. “Yuck.”
“Sorry, Arch.”
He grins. “It’s okay; everyone has to do kissing sometimes.”
Jack shakes his head. “No they don’t. I’m never going to. And that’s final.”
They have a mini-duel with their fishing nets until I threaten to snap any bamboo poles that are wielded in anger.
“Would you like a biscuit?”
“Yes please, Elsie.”
“I’ve got custard creams, and there’s Ribena for the boys. I got those little cartons they like.”
Perfect. And we’ve still got the Summer Fayre at school to look forward to; there might be a cake I can buy for tea, one of Mrs. Pickering’s coffee cakes, if Jane Johnson has remembered to put one aside for me. Even more perfect.
The Summer Fayre is heaving by the time we arrive, and everyone’s having a marvelous time, particularly Annabel Morgan, marching round with her clipboard, barking out orders, in a floral outfit with matching hat that makes her look like she’s in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot rather than a school playground. Ellen wins a plastic duck in the tombola, which Eddie loves, particularly the squeak, and the Auction of Promises goes particularly well. Mrs. Peterson bids a hundred pounds for the flag knitting kit that I donated, and Cath bids seventy-five pounds for one of Mark’s cakes.
“She was trying to get me to put you in the auction, so watch yourself.”
Ellen laughs. “Bloody cheek. I’m not reduced to renting by the hour, not yet anyway.”
Harry grins. “What was she meant to be doing, if you bid for her?”
