by T. S. Easton
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really.’
She walked off towards her classroom and I watched her go with a heavy heart. How could she not remember?
But then she turned around as if to see whether I was still watching her. She smiled and said, ‘Oh, apart from our kiss, of course.’
Then she was gone, swallowed up by a river of students pouring into the classroom.
I grinned, spun on my heels and raced off to Geography and Mr Grover.
24th October
The lift doors closed and we started to go up.
Suddenly, before I knew it, Daisy was clinging on to me and kissing my lips with hers. She was wearing glasses and had her dark hair tied up. She had on a tight, short skirt and a blouse that clung to her heaving bosom beneath. She looked dynamite.
‘What are you doing, Miss Field?’ I said. ‘We’re on our way to an important meeting that could make us a million pounds!’
‘I don’t care about the money,’ she said, hitting the red button with a sharp stiletto. The lift juddered to a stop. ‘I just need you desperately.’ She began taking off her blouse, revealing the black bra that I had given her for her 21st birthday.
I grinned a wry smile at her.
‘I can see you’re not going to take no for an answer. I’m going to have to quench your passion before you’ll be able to concentrate on this important business meeting.’
The bra dropped to the lift floor and she came close, breathing softly in my ear.
‘I always think you need to be properly prepped before any meeting,’ she said.
‘Take a note, Miss Field,’ I said and began unbuckling my belt.
Twenty minutes later, I was pulling my trousers back on and helping Daisy zip up her skirt when I noticed that we had an audience.
‘Hmm,’ I said wryly. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have taken the panoramic lift.’
Daisy turned around to look at the dozens of clapping and cheering office workers in the building opposite, who’d just had the show of their lives.
‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,’ she said, waving. Then she turned and grabbed my trouser department.
‘And neither have you … ’
Will Daisy and Graham’s passion de-rail their fledgling business venture? Or will their hunger for business success match their hunger for one another? I really can’t see where this is heading and I don’t much care either.
25th October
I presented Dad with the mugs after class tonight. He looked really impressed. I felt quite proud for a while. Before I remembered I hadn’t made them and my life is a tissue of lies.
He drank his tea out of one when we got home and kept grinning at me, giving me the thumbs-up.
‘What are you going to make next?’ he asked.
‘A flower pot,’ I said, once again rejecting the opportunity to come clean.
I’m going to hell.
26th October
In Knitting last night Mrs Hooper showed us how to design a pattern and how to write it in such a way that it can be followed by others. It’s a little like machine code, a programming language. Mrs Hooper asked us to just write out the pattern for a simple scarf to begin with, but then she showed us how to introduce more complex weaves and wefts. The symbology of casting off and so on. I found it quite fascinating but some of the girls looked a little blank. It’s probably not because they’re girls, in hindsight, that they didn’t find it all quite as engrossing as I did, but more because they’re not all a bunch of total spods like I am.
She reminded us that part of our coursework for submission is to come up with an original pattern.
‘It doesn’t have to be anything complex,’ Mrs Hooper explained. ‘Just a normal jumper will do, but maybe you could add some darts on the cuffs, or flares. Or perhaps you could make it unusually long. Just something that shows you’ve thought about it and that you understand how to adapt a standard pattern to incorporate a variation.’
She gave us ten minutes to work on it and I lost myself in the code for a while. I started thinking of different patterns, mad stuff, like jumpers with three arms and onesies with wings. The original Pattern, or Pattern Mk 1, was quickly superseded. I decided to move on to Pattern Mk 2. Or 2Patz for short.
‘Ben?’ someone was saying. ‘Ben?’
It was Natasha.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘You were miles away,’ she said, grinning. ‘Thinking about your girlfriend?’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ I said.
‘You must have loads of girls hanging around,’ she said.
I laughed. ‘Thanks for the ego boost, but no.’
Not officially anyway, I thought to myself, remembering what Megan had said to me at school on Monday. I smiled shyly at Natasha and got back to my pattern.
They’re like that at Knitting. So supportive.
I’ve now got quite a large pile of clay which I’ve been taking from Miss Swallow bit by bit and which I’m hiding in the Box of Shame under my bed, keeping it wet with damp newspaper. I should really start building the ziggurat before Dad finds it and asks awkward questions.
Anyway, I’ve done no homework tonight. I’ve been doodling most of the day, coming up with ideas for my grand pattern. I don’t just want to do something boring. I want to come up with something new, something brilliant. Something that I could sell on the internet, maybe.
2Patz promises to be just that.
28th October
Dad’s bereft about Lance Armstrong turning out to be a drugs cheat.
‘Not him too,’ he said. ‘Are there no heroes left?’
‘Frank Lampard?’ I said.
‘Boris Johnson?’ Mum suggested.
‘Harry Potter?’ Molly added.
Dad shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But sometimes I think it’s just a matter of time before even they let us down. Get caught stealing, or cheating, or lying.’ Just as he said that last bit he happened to look up at me and my stomach flipped.
Does he know? I hate this. I’ll have to tell him.
2nd November
What a weird conversation I had with Ms Gunter today. I decided to phone, rather than email, because I was confused about something I’d read in my probationary terms which I just happened to be re-reading.
‘Hello, Ms Gunter,’ I said. ‘It’s Ben Fletcher.’
‘Oh hello, Ben,’ she said. She sounded exhausted. ‘I’m glad it’s you.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. You don’t know the day I’ve had. So many phone calls, so many breaches. You’re not ringing with a problem, are you?’ she added guardedly.
‘No, not really,’ I replied, looking at the document in my other hand. ‘It’s just that it says here we’re supposed to have arranged face-to-face interviews during the probation. At least one here at my home. I was just wondering if you were going to be in contact about that.’
She was silent for a while..
‘Yes, Ben, don’t worry, I’ll get around to that very soon. Do you feel … do you think you need to see me urgently? Has something happened?’
‘No, not at all,’ I replied.
‘No more sieges outside old ladies’ houses?’
‘Not for ages,’ I said.
‘Good, I’m really pleased to hear it,’ she said. ‘Because you know what, Ben? You’re just about the only success story I’ve got at the moment.’
‘Oh,’ I said, not sure what to say. What bizarre universe is this in which I am a success story? ‘Sorry.’
‘They’ve cut the staffing again,’ she said. ‘There are just three case workers here now, handling over two hundred files each.’
‘How’s the waffle killer getting on?’ I asked.
‘Who? Oh yes, him. He’s back in jail, I’m afraid. Breached the terms of his probation.’
‘He didn’t eat someone else’s kidneys?’
‘No,’ she laughed.
‘Liver? spleen?’
�
��No, no. If you must know, there was a restraining order stopping him from being within a hundred metres of an ice-cream van.’
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘He was apprehended whilst in possession of a 99 with a flake.’
‘Worse than that,’ she said. ‘He walked into my office with the damn thing.’ We laughed then, but I was shocked to hear her laughter suddenly turn to sobs.
‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ she said. ‘This is totally unprofessional.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said, not sure what else to say.
‘It’s just so short-sighted,’ she went on. ‘They’re trying to save money, but cutting the probation service will just mean more crime, more people going back to jail, the costs of that dwarf the salaries of a few case workers.’
‘You should tell them that,’ I suggested.
‘I’ve tried,’ she said, sniffing. ‘We all have. I wrote to the Home Office about it just this week, telling them about the good work we’ve been doing.’
‘Well, that’s great,’ I said. ‘I’m sure they’ll take notice.’
‘Problem is, though,’ she said. ‘I’m not really having much luck with anything at the moment.’
‘That’s because you’re overworked,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That and the fact that my clients are all criminals and nutters.’
‘Except me,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes, Ben,’ she said. ‘Except you.’
3rd November
I made a decision yesterday.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Do what?’ Mrs Hooper replied absently. She was busy sorting out knitting needles into thicknesses. I admired the way her slim, nimble fingers sorted and shifted the thin rods, making everything neat. Turning chaos into order.
‘Enter the competition,’ I said. ‘The Knit-Off.’
‘You mean the UK Knitting Championship? Oh, that’s brilliant news,’ she said, beaming. For one exciting moment I thought she might be going to hug me. She didn’t.
‘But I have one condition,’ I said. She blinked.
‘You can’t tell anyone about this. Well, no one outside of the class. I’m not ready to come out just yet.’
She tried not to smile. ‘OK, Ben. I promise.’
‘The brochure said I’d need to submit a garment and an original pattern.’
‘The sweater you did will be perfect as a piece to submit,’ she said. ‘You’ve already done your clever pattern design, so it’s just the event itself.’
I wasn’t sure I wanted to submit Pattern Mk 1. I’d started to become a little uneasy about it, and was thinking of showing 2Patz instead, but 2Patz wasn’t ready yet. It wasn’t the time to say, though. No point broadcasting my psychological issues.
‘When is it?’ I asked. ‘The brochure doesn’t give the dates for the regional heats.’
‘December the fifteenth,’ she said.
‘But that’s only six weeks away,’ I cried.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘you’ll be fine. That gives you plenty of time to practise.’
‘What should I be practising?’ I asked.
‘Simple patterns, she said. ‘Small things. It’ll be a scarf, or a beanie or something. It’s about getting your knits nice and tight.’
‘So you don’t know what the pattern will be?’ I asked. ‘What exactly I’ll be knitting at the event?’
She shook her head. ‘Oh no, that’s a very closely guarded secret. You won’t know until half an hour before the event itself, but it’s unlikely to be anything unusual.’
‘Hope it doesn’t involve stranded colourwork,’ I said nervously. ‘I have a mental block about stranded colourwork.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, laughing. ‘You’ll be fine.’
Don’t worry about it? She’s told me not to worry about it? She clearly doesn’t know me at all.
I mentioned it to Natasha when she arrived.
‘That’s fantastic news, Ben,’ she said, giving me a massive hug. Natasha is quite a touchy-feely sort of person. She often touches me on the shoulder or puts an arm around me. I think she sees me like a little brother. ‘I’ll definitely come along to watch, if that’s OK?’
‘Yeah, I’d love that,’ I said. After all, no one else would be there. Maybe Mum, if she was around. God knows what I’m going to tell Dad. December 15th is a Sunday, maybe I’ll tell him I’m going to church.
He’ll take that better than the knitting.
5th November
Stopped off at Pullinger’s after school to collect some wool and had a chat with Natasha while I was there. It’s good to have someone to talk to about knitting. I told her I was going to try the Ocean Spray sweater.
‘Good for you,’ she said, impressed. ‘I’ve been hearing about that. You like a challenge, I’ll say that for you.’
‘Always up for a challenge,’ I replied, with feeling.
‘Are we talking about knitting here?’ she asked, ‘Or have we moved on to your love life?’
‘I’ve given up on love,’ I said. ‘I’m never going to get the girl. Every time I get close some cruel twist of fate denies me. I’m like that squirrel thing in Ice Age, forever chasing that damn acorn, never quite managing to catch it.’
‘I think you’ll get the girl, Ben,’ Natasha said. ‘I don’t think you realise just how special you are.’
‘Not sure everyone agrees,’ I said.
‘Fancy someone out of your league, do you?’
‘Possibly.’ I laughed, blushing.
‘Megan?’
‘Well, her too, but there is someone else I like. An older woman.’
‘Really?’ Natasha said, playing with her hair. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘That’s classified,’ I said, turning a bright red. What was with all the questions?
‘Well, I apologise,’ she said, winking. ‘Let’s go and look at some yarn.’
I got some lovely goats’ wool, dark grey, treated to smooth the fibres. I loved the feel of it and kept slipping my hand inside the paper bag I carried it in to stroke it on my way to Mrs Frensham’s.
There’s definitely something wrong with me.
6th November
I’m in a quandary. A moral dilemma. I was listening to Knitwits! this morning on my way to school and they started talking about illegal pattern downloading. Apparently it’s a huge issue in the States. There are pirate knitting sites where you can go and download pretty much anything you want, either the original pattern itself, or a knock-off. There’s a collective called OpenSource Patterns who think everything should be free and they mess about with other people’s designs and add things, or adjust them. It’s a real grey area, morally. The worst thing was, the Knitwits! girls mentioned the Ocean Spray pattern and also the site where I’d downloaded it!
‘I’m telling you, this sort of thing is destroying the knitting industry in this country,’ Marie said, going a bit over the top, I thought.
‘It’s theft,’ Alana said. ‘Pure and simple. Would you steal a car? No. Would you steal a sandwich? No.’
‘Would you steal a hot dog?’ Marie asked.
‘No … ’ Alana said. ‘I –’
‘Would you steal a bag of potato chips?’ Marie asked.
‘No, I thin—’
‘Would you steal bacon?’
‘That’s enough examples,’ Alana said. ‘The point is, people spend time and effort creating these things and they deserve to be rewarded.’
Well, of course, how could I disagree with that? When I got home after school I deleted the pattern from my hard drive. But now what? I don’t have enough money to download it legally. I’ve bought all this wool.
I am a certifiable muppet.
7th November
‘ … But how can you fancy Craig Revel Horwood?’ Dad was saying to Mum in disgust as I sneaked past the sitting-room and went up the stairs. Usually I’d join them for Strictly, but I’ve lost interest in telly lately. All I want to do is knit.
I’d been over at Joz’s place all day playing Xbox until the knitting cold turkey drove me back home again. I crept in this time, and tiptoed down the hall, hoping for an hour or two to work on the sweater before anyone realised I was home.
Here’s my plan to deal with the lack of a pattern for the Ocean Spray. I’ve decided to knit it anyway, without a pattern. Just from memory. I think it’s a good mental exercise, it’ll help me learn how to hold the idea of a garment in my head and just knit it, without constantly checking the next line. It’s sort of ripping off the design, but they don’t have a copyright on grey jumpers with cabling, do they?
I’ll make sure I don’t get too close to the Ocean Spray design; I’ll make it my own, that way I won’t be breaching copyright.
8th November
Have I mentioned before how disgusting my dad is? He’s gruesome all the time, but especially bad when Mum’s not around. Even if I have mentioned it I’m sure I can’t have got across the totality of it all. Especially as he seems to have a new revolting habit each week. Last time it was constant burping. Not loud, open-mouthed belches like a normal disgusting person. He makes a pretence of being polite by doing them with his mouth closed so that his cheeks blow out like a frog’s dewlap. Then he slowly lets the burpy air out of the side of his mouth in a slow hiss before saying ‘excuse me’.
This week though, is even worse. He’s been obsessively cleaning his ears with a metal skewer. He says he likes the sensation of the metal scratching against his inner ear.
‘I have an itch,’ he said one day at breakfast. ‘A terrible, maddening itch. This is the only thing that works.’
‘You’re like a Roald Dahl character,’ I said. ‘Seeing your GP is out of the question, I suppose?’ Molly was staring at him as if he was a creature from outer space. When even Molly notices something is out of the ordinary there’s a serious problem, Houston.
‘Dr Gilhooly?’ he spat. ‘She’ll just tell me to use cotton tips.’
