by T. S. Easton
‘Or maybe she might prescribe some appropriate medicine? You probably have an infection.’
He ignored me, sighing with pleasure as he worked the skewer around.
I went off to be sick.
I love my dad, but he is getting more repulsive every day.
9th November
I’ve now cleared an area in Mrs F’s shed a couple of metres squared, or cubed, I suppose. I’ve uncovered an old wooden chair so I can sit in there, out of the rain, listening to Radio 4 on my phone, or maybe a knitting podcast on my iPod while I sort through the papers and assorted junk.
I’d just finished a big pile of papers yesterday, which were mostly old tax returns. But then I found a manila folder full of letters which looked like they might be personal, so I put them aside. The pile of papers had been squashing an old cardboard box, which I opened. You know what I found?
Knitting things. Balls of yarn, a stack of old yellowing knitting patterns, slightly nibbled by mice, and about 60 knitting needles. Not cheap knitting needles either. I picked the box up and sat with it on the chair, rummaging through in peaceful silence.
So Mrs Frensham was a knitter too. Or had been. No active knitter would have abandoned needles of this quality.
After a while Mrs Frensham came out with a cup of tea. I showed her the letters, which she nodded at and snatched out of my hand. Then I showed her the contents of the knitting box. When she saw it her shoulders sagged a little and she looked deflated.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked, wondering if the sight of the knitting things had brought back some unwelcome memories.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, a little snappish. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
I decided not to push it. But, ‘What should I do with these?’ I asked, indicating the box.
‘Chuck them,’ she said. ‘They’re worthless.’
‘They’re not, though,’ I said. ‘I mean, the yarn is too old, of course, and the patterns are out-of-date, but these are KnitPro acrylic needles. And these ones are Pony brand, they’re quality.’
She eyed me curiously. ‘What’s wrong with you, boy? Had a knock on the head, have you? How is it you know so much about knitting?’
I thought it over quickly, what harm could it do to tell her? She didn’t know any of my friends and if she was ever in a room with any of them she’d clobber them with a giant lollipop before they had a chance to raise the subject of my hobbies.
‘I like to knit,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m taking a class, every Thursday, down at the college.’
‘A knitting hoodie?’ she said. ‘Now I’ve heard everything.’
‘I hardly ever wear a hoodie,’ I said, exasperated.
‘You take the needles then, if you want them,’ she said, turning to go.
‘You don’t want them for yourself?’ I called after her.
She spun, looking cross.
‘What would I want with some silly old needles?’ she growled. ‘Knitting’s for girls.’ And with that parting dig, Mrs F stomped off up back to the house.
Bristling a little bit, I carefully replaced the knitting gear in the box. I wasn’t that bothered by her insult, but I felt bad taking something which seemed to have a history, nor could I bear to throw away those needles.
10th November
‘Graham,’ Daisy sighed breathlessly. ‘I’ve not seen one that big before.’
I smiled ruthlessly and put the egg whisk down.
‘I’m saving that for later,’ I said to Daisy, where she lay on the snooker table. She groaned in frustrated impatience. Her large chest heaved angrily at me. She needed something, and fast.
I quickly walked towards her and checked the silk scarves were still holding her tight.
‘Kiss me,’ she moaned. I kept her waiting a bit longer as I chalked my cue. Then I decided it was time to pot the pink.
I’m not really sure what ‘the author’ is trying to say here. He might be trying to approach this from a feminist perspective but I’m not too clear about the snooker table metaphor. Does Daisy’s position atop the table represent her elevated place in society? Is Graham chalking a real cue? Is this a post-modern reference to the works of Camus? I guess I’ll have to read on to find out.
11th November
At some point, I suppose I’ll have to tell Dad my secret. He’s not going to like it, especially the fact that I’ve been lying to him for so long, but this can’t go on. Tonight was the closest I’ve come to being caught red-handed. I was sitting on my bed, needles in hand, yarn everywhere and deeply engrossed in the sweater. The cabling is quite complex and really, I wish I’d picked something simpler, or put my hand in my pocket and paid for the pattern. Anyway, the bit I was doing involved using needles of three different sizes. I was getting more and more frustrated, especially as I knew I should be studying for Maths.
Then I lost a needle. A US size 3.5. It’s one of my favourites and I just couldn’t find it anywhere.
‘I just had you a minute ago!’ I said, looking under my bed and lifting the duvet.
‘Who did you have a minute ago?’ Dad asked, walking into the room behind me, and nearly giving me a heart attack. I quickly dropped the duvet over the cardigan on the bed.
‘You got a girl in here?’ he asked, laughing.
‘Lost my … protractor,’ I gibbered, but he wasn’t listening. He was looking past my left ear. I turned to see what he was looking at, but it was just a poster of the periodic table. I turned back.
‘Huh?’
‘What’s that behind your ear?’ he asked.
He reached out a hand and grabbed hold of the US size 3.5 knitting needle I’d tucked behind my ear earlier. That’s where it went.
‘What’s this, Ben?’ he asked.
‘No idea,’ I said weakly.
‘It’s a knitting needle,’ he said, stating the bleeding obvious as usual. He looked nonplussed.
‘I think it might be one of Mrs Frensham’s old needles,’ I said. ‘She was throwing it out.’
‘So you took it off her hands?’ he said. ‘What for?’
‘I thought it might be useful as a … ’
Dad’s eyes were boring into me. I had never seen him look quite so concerned about anything.
‘ … As a flagpole for my ziggurat,’ I finished.
‘A flagpole?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do ziggurats have flagpoles?’
‘Well, I had to Google that.’
‘And?’
‘Turns out they didn’t.’
‘Oh.’
‘No flags.’
‘I see.’ He inspected the needle carefully, then looked up at me. ‘So you don’t need it?’ he asked.
‘No!’ I snorted. ‘Why would I want a knitting needle?’
He nodded. ‘Mind if I take it?’
‘Um … suuure,’ I said, quite pleasantly, considering.
It’s only my favourite needle. US sizes in nickel are hard enough to get at the best of times but that’s a quality product. An Addi brand. Practically irreplaceable. But right there in my bedroom, in front of me, Dad jammed the pointed end of my Addi Turbo nickel size 3.5 into his manky old ear and began grinding it about.
‘Ohhhh, yes,’ he groaned. ‘This is perfect.’
‘Great,’ I said, trying not to gag. ‘Glad to help.’
Dad finished grinding and inspected the end of the needle with a satisfied smile.
Gross. It will need sterilisation now. If I ever manage to get it back.
12th November
A man came round from the council to test our water. He said there was too much zinc. Is this why the SodaStream’s stopped working? There’s nothing about it on my Guardian Periodic Table Wall Poster. I should Google this later.
13th November
I’ve finished the Not-the-Ocean-Spray sweater. I calculated that it took 22 and a half hours of actual knitting time. I think that’s pretty quick. I’m looking at it now, laid out on my bed. One of the arms is slightly lon
ger than the other, which puzzles me as I’m sure I used the same number of rows in each. Also, there are a couple of dropped stitches from the other night when Mum and Dad were out and I was watching Dallas and my attention was caught by a particularly dramatic confrontation between Christopher and John-Ross.
I’m not one hundred per cent happy with the jumper. But the cabling on the front is quite neat, I suppose, and I added a couple of impressive flourishes that just came to me. I’ll take it in to class tomorrow night and get some constructive criticism from Mrs Hooper.
14th November
Googled zinc. Apparently, excess zinc causes lethargy and ataxia. So this is why I’m rubbish at football. The good news is that I can now blame my dad, who probably bought cheap zinc pipes when he installed the bathroom and kitchen suites. He can’t really argue with Google.
And if I fail my AS levels that’ll be down to him, too.
15th November
Mrs Hooper LOVED the sweater.
‘This is astonishing,’ she said as she examined it.
‘Dropped a couple of stitches watching Dallas,’ I mumbled apologetically.
It was before class and a few of the others had wandered in and joined Mrs Hooper to exclaim over my work. I did feel a bit proud.
‘This cabling, was this from a pattern?’ Natasha asked.
I shook my head, slightly embarrassed. ‘I just thought of it as I was doing it. The jumper itself is inspired by the Ocean Spray design.’
‘I see that. It’s brilliant,’ she said, her eyes shining.
‘One of the arms is longer than the other,’ I pointed out. ‘I think I must have miscounted.’
‘Or it could be that you’ve made the knits slightly larger on one side. That’s natural for a beginner, until you’ve settled into your natural action.’
I was pleased to hear that. I hate getting calculations wrong and it had been bothering me.
‘What are you going to do next?’ Mrs Hooper asked excitedly.
I shrugged. I hadn’t really thought about it.
‘Why don’t you go down to the bookshop? They have quite a wide selection of new patterns down there. I think you’re probably ready to tackle something quite complex now.’
‘You do?’ I asked.
‘Definitely,’ Mrs Hooper said.
Everyone smiled at me and it felt pretty amazing, just for a moment.
19th November
I’m nearly done clearing out the shed. It’s really quite spacious now. Dry and warm. I can see why Mr Frensham spent so much time in there. It would make a nice, relaxing place to sit and reflect and maybe get away from Mrs Frensham from time to time. It would also make a nice place to sit and knit, in peace.
Mrs Frensham brought me a radio today, along with my tea. I paused the Knitwits! podcast I was listening to on my iPod and smiled at her.
‘Found this in a box,’ she said gruffly. ‘You might as well have it, instead of listening to that thing all the time,’ she pointed to my iPod, clearly thinking it was a portable radio.
‘Actually, I’m listening to a podcast,’ I told her. ‘About knitting.’
‘Whatcast?’
‘A podcast. It’s like a radio programme, but you download it off the internet and put it on your iPod.’
‘What’s wrong with the radio?’ she asked.
‘Well, they don’t always have the programme on that you want to listen to.’
‘So change it to Radio Two,’ she suggested. ‘What programme did you say you were listening to?’
‘Knitwits! It’s two girls who talk about knitting a lot.’
She stared at me for a while, an odd look in her rheumy eye.
‘You’re a bit odd, aren’t you?’ she said.
20th November
You know in The Apprentice where one of the contestants flaps about, talking to potential customers without actually selling anything and they later get accused in the Boardroom of being unable to ‘Close the Deal’? Well, that’s like me with Megan Hooper. There’s lots of talking going on. Lots of face-to-face interaction, but no contract. Not yet.
Take today, for example. I saw her at lunch, she was on her way to the library. I was heading off to the staffroom to talk to Mr Grover. We smiled at each other. I said hello. She said hello. Then I couldn’t think of what to say next, so I said, ‘See you later’. She said, ‘See you later’, and we smiled at each other again and that was that.
As it is pretty obvious that I really don’t know what I’m doing here, why can’t Megan take charge? Maybe she’s really not interested, and that kiss we had was like an experiment that has somehow failed? Maybe she instructed Jasmine not to give me her number? Why does it sometimes seem as though she’s avoiding me at school?
The reason I’m not giving up hope entirely is because it’s so bloody awkward with her and everyone knows that’s a good sign. If we were just friends, then we’d chat, or just make stupid faces at each other in the corridor as we passed and not think anything of it. If looking at me made her want to stick forks in her eyes, then she’d just ignore me, or run away, like the other girls do.
But there’s something there. I know it. Something there that makes it impossible to have a normal conversation with her, something that makes me trip over my shoelaces, and makes her drop her books. Something that makes both of us act a bit mental around each other.
Or am I just kidding myself?
22nd November
Apparently I’m just kidding myself.
Hated today. I had another run-in with Lloyd Manning. Plus Megan seems to be not just avoiding me now, but deliberately ignoring me. So much for the mutual-awkwardness theory. I couldn’t get close to her because she was always with a group of friends, helping each other with their quadratic equations, or pretending to. I hung about for a bit, feeling like an idiot, and when it was clear she wasn’t going to even look up, let alone come over and talk to me, I gave up and went off to the library, which is where Psycho Manning caught up with me. I was sitting, staring at a page of logarithms and he just walked past and slid all my books off the desk onto the floor.
‘Shh,’ Carter the librarian hissed at me.
‘Sorry,’ I mouthed. Then I turned to glare at Manning, who was metaphorically roflhao. What was he even doing in here anyway? Manning can’t read. I’d always imagined he couldn’t cross the threshold of a library, like a vampire unable to enter a church.
I’d just got engrossed in the book again when he walked past and this time he snatched my notebook and walked off with it.
‘Hey!’ I yelled, scrambling after him.
‘Shh!’ hissed Carter again.
But I ignored him and kept after Manning, who walked quickly out of the library and ran off across the quad. I gave chase. It was windy today and leaves were being whipped around as I sprinted after him, furious. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do but I wasn’t going to back down, that was for sure.
Then I saw his two bodyguards, walking along towards us. He slowed as he approached them and turned to watch me.
‘Problem, Bellend?’ he asked.
‘Give me that back,’ I said, less sure of myself now there were three of them, but blood still boiling.
‘What? This?’ he asked, looking at the book. He flicked through a few pages. It was then that I remembered the Pattern. Or the revised pattern. 2Patz.
‘Oh, how pretty,’ he said. ‘Bellend’s been drawing. Lovely cardigan here. And here it is again, with a hood, and now there’s arms. Very nice, Gok!’
Jermaine and the other one were peering over Manning’s shoulder, laughing and whispering. I felt my face grow hot.
‘It’s a project for Art,’ I lied. I didn’t actually do Art, but they wouldn’t know that.
‘Need some assistance, Ben?’ a familiar voice asked behind me. I turned to see Gex, Joz behind him looking nervous.
‘Thought you were suspended,’ Manning grunted at Gex.
‘Nope, it’s finished,’ Gex said. �
�� … I think.’
Manning’s gang fell about laughing at this.
‘Give him his drawings back,’ Gex said, impressively focused given the situation.
‘Or what?’ Manning said, not laughing now. The three of them walked over to us and Manning stood nose-to-nose with Gex, who didn’t flinch.
‘Forget it, Gex,’ I said. ‘It’s just a dumb notebook.’ The last thing I wanted was a fight. Not just because I’m a coward, but also because I’d be breaching the terms of my probation. And Gex would certainly be suspended again if he was caught fighting. That’s assuming he wasn’t already suspended but had forgotten about it, which has happened before.
‘Yeah,’ Manning said, still eyeballing Gex. ‘It’s just a dumb notebook.’
‘But it doesn’t belong to you,’ Gex said. ‘It belongs to my friend.’
The end of lunch bell rang. I was supposed to be on my way to Geography. I felt agitated.
‘Your boyfriend, you mean?’ Manning said. ‘Is that why he’s drawing a pansy cardigan? Is it a present for you?’
‘Come on, Gex, let’s g—’ I started to say, but before I could finish Gex and Manning were on the ground in a tangle of limbs. Manning’s gang piled on top of two of them, rolling around, fists flailing. Joz and I looked at each other with a WTF look, then rushed forward to try and pull the fighters apart.
‘Oi, you lot!’ Carter had emerged from the library for once. He came rushing up and yanked Jermaine off Gex. Then Mrs Fowler came huffing up. ‘I saw the whole thing,’ she said. ‘He started it,’ she said, pointing at Gex.
‘No, he didn’t,’ I cried. ‘It was Manning, Miss.’
At this Manning shot me a filthy look, presumably adding ‘snitch’ to his list of reasons he wanted to pummel me.
‘You and you,’ she said, pointing to me and Joz. ‘Get to class.’
‘But … ’ I started.
