Needles and Pearls

by Gil McNeil

  ‘No, but everyone relaxed, nothing too formal. Did I tell you I think we’ve found the hotel?’

  ‘Great, where? Hang on, Seth. Don’t run with that, love – you might trip and hurt yourself.’

  ‘It’s my stick, for later, I found it in the garden. Can I keep it?’

  ‘Yes, but let’s put it over here, until your mum comes, shall we?’

  ‘Ok.’

  He runs back out into the garden.

  ‘Sorry, so where’s this hotel?’

  ‘Scotland. It’s more of a castle, but very postmodern, fabulous spa, and acres of private land so the snappers will be easy to control. Rebecca found it; she’s talking rates with them now. They’re not open yet, so this will be one of their launch events, which should save us a few quid.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘I always thought wedding planners were crap, but I’ve got to admit she’s turned out to be incredibly useful, although with what she’s charging she bloody should be.’

  ‘It’ll be handy for Harry’s family too.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the only drawback. They’ll all be belting over from Glasgow, and there’s millions of them.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  ‘So we’re still thinking kilts, for the boys.’

  ‘Jack, possibly.’

  ‘I thought I’d try a spot of bribery with Archie?’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I’ve got a dress fitting next week and she’s starting on yours. What size do you think you’ll be by June?’

  ‘Huge.’

  ‘Can you be a tiny bit more specific, darling? She really needs to know. There’ll be room to spare, though – we’re going for an empire line.’

  ‘It’ll have to be a bloody big empire then.’

  She laughs.

  ‘How big did you get with Archie? I can’t remember.’

  ‘Enormous. Nick used to call me Big Bertha by the end. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Oh yes, he called you BB for short, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There’s a silence.

  ‘I really wish he was here on days like this.’

  ‘I know, but look on the bright side, darling. At least nobody will be calling you Big Bertha.’

  ‘Or laughing when I get stuck in wicker chairs.’

  ‘That was a kid’s chair, though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’ll tell them to make it extra floaty, and then we can adjust it, if it’s too big.’

  ‘Trust me, too big is not going to be an issue.’

  ‘Will Vin and Lulu be back by then?’

  ‘Looks like it. Gran’s is only a week before yours, so I’m sure they’ll be around.’

  ‘Great, I’ll put them on my invitation list.’

  ‘How many are you up to now?’

  ‘Six hundred. And the castle ballroom holds three hundred, max, so we’re talking about a marquee.’

  ‘I thought you said you hated marquees.’

  ‘I do. But not as much as I hate the idea of being pressed up against the walls at my own wedding reception by hordes of pissed Glaswegians. It’s a fucking nightmare.’

  ‘Mummy, Aunty Ellen said the F-word.’ Archie’s thrilled.

  ‘Did she? Well, never mind … where are your gloves?’

  ‘They got wet. And, Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’ll be six people in our family, when the new baby comes, you and me and Jack, and Bruce and Nemo, and the baby, and I’m six too. Gran was telling me. That’s very clever, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘And if we had a dog, we’d be seven. Which is even better. Can we do our castles now, Mum? We’ve done all the sparkers and Martin says he’ll help me, so I can beat Jack and get my castle done first. Marco’s going to help Jack build his, but I bet me and Martin will beat them.’

  ‘Okay, but hang on a minute – there’s something Aunty Ellen needs to ask you. About kilts.’

  Ellen’s giving him one of her Big Smiles as I retreat into the garden to check all the sparklers are really out and there are no children lurking by the bonfire. Ellen can be very persuasive when she wants to be, but I’ve got a funny feeling she might have met her match with our birthday boy.

  Chapter Four

  June

  Wedding Belles

  Flaming June has begun with a heatwave. I’m wearing baggy shorts around the house, which are far too Morecambe and Wise to wear outside so Gran’s made me a couple of voluminous pinafore dresses on her sewing machine; I’ve got one with pink flowers and one with lavender, and they both make me look like I’m auditioning for a part in Little House on the Prairie. All I need is a bloody bonnet. But at least they’re cool, and that’s all I really care about at the moment.

  I’m opening the post on Wednesday morning, and there are a few catalogues, so I’m looking forward to a mini-Boden moment, not that I buy anything from them any more; there’s something faintly depressing about all those amusing patterns in stretchy cotton, soon to be seen on all the Tabithas and Olivers of every middle-class family with a Volvo estate and private health insurance. And anyway, they’re far too expensive for me now. But I like a quick perusal of the catalogue to see what we’d be wearing if we lived in Fulham.

  There’s a letter on posh cream paper, which I’m opening while I put the kettle on. Christ, it’s from Daniel. Or rather his lawyers. I recognise the firm; they’re one of the ones who issued injunctions on behalf of big names when we were in the middle of researching stories at work. Very expensive, and very aggressive. God.

  ‘Without prejudice.’ This isn’t going to be good.

  Their client has informed them of a potential claim, and a test at an approved laboratory would seem to be best way forward in the circumstances as outlined above. Bloody hell.

  I call Ellen.

  ‘I’m not surprised, darling. I told you he’d do something like this.’

  ‘They’re practically calling me a liar.’

  ‘That’s just lawyer bollocks – they’re all like that. Get your own fuck-off-and-die firm – they’ll sort it. Do you want me to talk to James?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll win, darling, so he won’t charge you. I’ll square him with an interview or something – he loves being on telly.’

  ‘Win what?’

  ‘Don’t start all that again, sweetheart. You’ve told him the good news, and now he’s saying prove it. So prove it.’

  ‘I don’t have to. If he doesn’t believe me then that’s his problem.’

  ‘Not if you want child support, it isn’t.’

  ‘But I don’t. You know I don’t.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve gone all hormonal.’

  ‘No it isn’t, Ellen. If he wants to do something for the baby, he can, but not via me. It would make me feel like I was beholden to him, and anyway, as soon as money comes into it everything always changes. He can start a savings fund or something for the baby, if he wants to. I’ve still got Nick’s money for Jack and Archie, in accounts for them, so they’ll all have a little bit put by.’

  ‘Stop calling it Nick’s money – it’s your money, for Christ’s sake. And what about you? Who’s starting a savings fund for you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Yes, but Daniel’s worth an absolute fortune, darling. Why not make it easier on yourself?’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be easier, not really, and I can do this, Ellen. I didn’t know I could, not when Nick died; I thought I’d go under on my own. But now I think I can. And it’s peaceful; I don’t feel like I’ve been hijacked any more, that what someone else wants always comes first. Which I really like. Well, apart from the kids, but I don’t mind that. We won’t have to go on parish relief or anything, you know. I can manage, if I’m careful, I know I can.’

  ‘Christ, is this some post-feminist thing?’

  ‘There’s nothing post about it. Siste
rs are definitely doing it for themselves round here, have been since the war in Gran’s case. And look at Grace: nobody thinks she’s being a post-feminist, whatever that is.’

  ‘That’s because she’s incredibly rich. Rich people and aristocrats have always been able to write their own rules.’

  ‘Well, so can the rest of us. I mean if it’s really working, like with you and Harry, or Connie and Mark, then great, but the average version, like me and Nick, where the mortgage is what really keeps you going more than anything else, well, no thanks. Been there, done that. Almost stopped feeling crap about it. Of course that could be because I haven’t actually got a mortgage any more. But still, I like the idea that I can take care of us, all of us. And I don’t want to rush into changing that, not just for the sake of money.’

  ‘Yes, but why not have lovely clothes at the same time, the occasional gorgeous handbag? Would that be so terrible?’

  ‘Yes, I think it might. I’ve had enough of compromising; I’ll compromise for the kids, but not for a handbag. And it’s amazing how little you can get by on when you stop buying stuff you don’t need, you know.’

  ‘Oh God, you’re starting to scare me now. You’re not going to start knitting your own shoes, are you?’

  ‘No, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not really, but then my definition of need has always been different from yours, darling.’

  ‘I just don’t know what to do about the letter.’

  ‘Ignore it, if you’re determined to be poor for ever. Make the bastard sweat, and then he’ll realise that he’s got it wrong and you’re probably one of the only women in Europe who doesn’t want to help herself to his assets.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Great. I’ll do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ignore it.’

  ‘So what are you up today then? Got a consciousness-raising session in the shop, have you, reclaiming the night?’

  ‘We do that on Thursday at Stitch and Bitch.’

  ‘With the fabulous cakes. That’s definitely my kind of women’s group, excellent patisserie and knitting on-trend items. Germaine Greer, eat your heart out.’

  ‘Or not. I bet she knits.’

  ‘I bet she bloody doesn’t. How is the gorgeous Mark, by the way? Connie still got him locked in the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes, but he loves it, although he works too hard.’

  ‘Unlike my future husband, who was out on a bender last night, so God knows what time I’ll see him. One of his freelance mates celebrating not getting shot, or getting shot but coming home with all his bits, I forget which.’

  ‘Sounds like a good reason to celebrate.’

  ‘They don’t need a reason, trust me; freelance cameramen are a law unto themselves. They should get special jackets. They’re always in and out of bloody hospital, pretending it was in pursuit of a breaking story, but usually they’ve just got pissed and fallen off something. They should open a private press ward somewhere, make the sods pay.’

  ‘How was the meeting with Rebecca about the guest list?’

  ‘A total nightmare. Harry keeps adding names, including all his ex-girlfriends.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He’s obviously so proud of you, he wants to show you off.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. Maybe. But what if I look like an idiot in my dress? Some brides do, you know. It’s a hard look to get right, and you can end up looking like the dress is wearing you.’

  ‘You won’t. And you’ll have a giant person behind you, as a useful contrast.’

  ‘True. Thanks, darling. And you’re right, fuck it – throw it in the bin and go for it. You don’t need him or his money. I’ll always help out, if you get stuck. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Thanks, Ellen.’

  ‘And then I’ll sue the bastard.’

  I’m in the shop on Wednesday morning with Gran and Lulu. She and Vin arrived yesterday, jet-lagged and exhausted, but they’ve both perked up after a big breakfast and Vin’s doing his helpful-big-brother act and moving beds around at home. We’re borrowing a double mattress from Connie for him and Lulu, so Mum and Dad can have the spare bed when they arrive tomorrow, which I’m still dreading. She was on the phone last night complaining again about the wedding, so I’m knitting the last triangle for the bunting to hang across the window and trying not to think about it.

  Gran’s handing Lulu shells, and we’ve already draped dark-blue net over some pale blue to suggest waves. And I’ve stapled silver velvet to the partition and covered it with more net so it’s all looking very nautical. And we’ve got real rocks at each side, which we’ll put back on the beach when we’re done: they’ll be perfect to sit the little knitted teddies on for a mini Teddy Bear’s Picnic alongside the little bathing ladies I’ve knitted, with their striped towels and beach bags. They’re slightly more Beryl Cook than I intended, and look surprisingly lascivious for woolly people, but I’m hoping they’ll inspire people to buy the beach-bag kits I’ve put into our McKnits carrier bags: four balls of cotton in jaunty colours, with a simple pattern and a pair of wooden needles and a stick of rock, all for fifteen quid. They’re starting to sell quite well, which is great, especially since I’m making nearly seven quid profit on each one. Old Mr Prewitt, who does the books, says last month’s takings were the highest he can remember – which is basically since the dawn of time, so that’s encouraging; even if a hefty proportion of it did come from Grace’s big cashmere order.

  Gran’s giving the shells a quick squirt of Pledge before she hands them to Lulu; there’s pretty much nothing she can’t polish, or wipe down with a damp cloth.

  ‘Did you see Jo’s scan picture of the baby, Lulu? Doesn’t he look like our Archie?’

  Gran came with me to the second scan at the hospital, and has decided the baby’s definitely a boy because the nurse kept saying ‘he’.

  ‘It’s wonderful what they can do now, isn’t it? In my day it was only trumpets.’

  Lulu looks confused.

  ‘What did they do with trumpets?’

  ‘Listened to the baby, but you never got to hear, only the nurse. Those microphone things they’ve got now are much better, and his little heart was beating so fast, I was telling Reg.’

  She gives me a sideways glance: she took a great deal of persuading in the hospital that the baby’s heartbeat was meant to be that fast and we didn’t need to get the doctor in.

  ‘And he passed his nuclear test too, didn’t he, clever thing.’

  Lulu turns to me.

  ‘Nuclear test?’

  ‘Nuchal fold. It gives you the odds of the baby having Down’s. The older you get the higher the odds are, but I got the results last week and they’re better than Archie’s.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, that’s good.’

  Gran nods.

  ‘And he’s the spitting image of our Archie, and Reg agrees with me. And so does Betty.’

  I got a copy of the scan picture for Gran too this time, and by the sound of it there aren’t many people in Broadgate who haven’t seen it; she’s got it in a special little Perspex frame in her handbag.

  Lulu clambers back through the hatch and starts tucking knitted fish in amongst the net.

  ‘I think Moby’s a lovely name for a boy.’

  Gran peers over the partition.

  ‘Do you, dear? Fancy that. I like family names, I’ve always liked Tom, or Albert. I had an Uncle Albert, and he was ever so nice. Always had sweets.’

  ‘Tom’s a nice name, but Archie and Albert sounds a bit like one of those old music hall acts, don’t you think?’

  Gran hands her more fish.

  ‘True.’

  ‘And what about if it’s a girl? Flower names are pretty, like Daisy and Rose. Or Ocean – that’s a great name for a girl.’

  Lulu’s obviously been giving the name thing a fair bit of thought; in fact quite a few people seem to have been pondering names; Elsie was lobbyi
ng for Stewart yesterday, for some reason best known to herself.

  Gran hands her another knitted fish.

  ‘Rose is pretty, and I had an Aunty Ruby, she was nice; and there’s Mary of course, for family names, but we’ve got far too many of those already, and Pearl, my grandmother was a Pearl, lovely woman, she was; and my mother had a sister called Nancy, I think, only she never talked about her. Took up with a bad lot and used to drink. We should ask the boys, you know. It would make them feel involved.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Gran, unless you want a grandchild called Gandalf.’

  Lulu and I arrange the dangling fish, which I’ve put on to nylon thread, and then Lulu positions the fat ladies on their rock and puts the finishing touches to the Teddy Bear’s Picnic, while I hang a couple of the beach bags and a bucket and spade from the hooks in the corner of the ceiling.

  ‘Thanks, Lulu. I don’t know how I’d have done this without you.’

  ‘I think it all looks brilliant.’

  ‘Well, good, because they’ll all be in complaining if it’s not up to scratch.’

  Broadgate won the silver medal in the Seaside in Bloom thing last year, and the shop window got a mention from one of the judges, so practically everyone on the Parish Council has been in reminding me how vital it is that I pull out all the stops.

  ‘I bet you’ll win gold.’

  ‘I doubt it. Whitstable is in our group this year, and they win everything. Lady Denby’s furious about it; she reckons money’s been changing hands.’

  Lulu heroically offers to go next door with Gran to have another floral moment with Mrs Davies and her buckets of flowers, while I worry about what Mum’s going to say when she sees the wallpaper in the spare bedroom. I’m trying to take my mind off it by putting in another order for the cheap cotton when Lord Denby wanders in, looking even more vague than usual.

  ‘Morning, my dear. Haven’t seen my wife, have you? Meant to be meeting her somewhere, only I’m damned if I know where, and there’ll be hell to pay if I don’t track her down. Could I wait here? Think she said something about wool.’

  ‘Of course. Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’