by T. S. Easton
‘Now!’ she snapped. I gave Gex a sorry look and walked off. He didn’t seem bothered, to be honest. Gex hadn’t wanted to go through sixth form anyway. He wanted to go off and be a DJ, but his parents told him they’d kick him out if he didn’t keep going to school, and he’s not really got anywhere else to go.
I phoned Gex straight after school. He’d been suspended again.
‘Sorry, mate,’ I said. ‘I feel responsible.’
‘I had to do it,’ he said.
‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘It was just a notebook.’
‘He was bullying you,’ Gex said.
‘Yeah, but who got suspended?’ I said. ‘Not Manning. And I nearly got caught up in it. I’m on probation, remember?’
‘You gotta fight for your turf, you feel me?’
‘Oh, don’t give me that Wire crap,’ I said. ‘I appreciate what you did, but it was still a dumb thing to do.’
‘You are such a pussy,’ he said. ‘I was standing up for you, innit?’
‘I didn’t ask you to,’ I snapped.
‘Next time I won’t bother, then,’ he sniffed.
‘Please don’t,’ I told him. ‘I don’t want to go to jail, OK?’
He laughed. ‘You won’t go to jail … ’
‘I might, if I breach the terms of my probation,’ I said, angry now. ‘Thank you for standing up for me, I mean it. But next time, please let me deal with it, OK?’
‘Whatever,’ he said.
Why can’t he see it from my point of view? I need to keep out of trouble. So does he, for heaven’s sake.
The only thing that kept me going today was the thought of knitting class tonight. How sad is that?
Nobody judges me in that class. Or at least no one is critical of me. We all help each other with our problems. It’s got to the point where we talk about other stuff now, not just knitting-related stuff. I know that Mrs Simpson is having trouble with her cat bringing in birds and ripping them limb from limb on the kitchen floor. And that Amelia is having trouble finding a suitable bloke on her dating website, and that Mrs Grissome has had mysterious problems with her waterworks which she refers to in a code that all the women seem to understand but which leaves me mystified. At first I thought she meant her actual waterworks, as in the plumbing in her house. When I told her I had the same problem and was suffering from a build-up of zinc she and the rest of them gave me a very funny look.
Myself, I steer clear of talking about Lloyd Manning, or my dubious friends. But I have told them about my efforts to ensnare the beautiful Megan. Of course, I never refer to her by her real name. I call her ‘the girl’ or ‘Miss X’. I am kind of attached to Miss X.
They calm me, these Stitch and Bitch sessions. It’s like the girls on Knitwits! keep saying. Knitting is more fun with company. Company is more fun with knitting.
24th November
Dad and I were watching a recorded Great British Bake Off tonight and one of the contestants was carrying a man-bag in one of the background sequences they do.
‘What a ponce,’ Dad said.
‘Why?’ I asked, ‘Just because he has a man-bag?’
‘Not just that, look at his pointy shoes. You wouldn’t catch Jeremy Clarkson wearing pointy shoes. Or James May.’
‘Richard Hammond might,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ he scoffed. ‘He’s a metrosexual.’
‘What’s wrong with metrosexuals?’ I asked. ‘They’re just men who look after themselves. You know, they’re comfortable with their feminine sides?’
‘Being comfortable with your feminine side is one thing, having cuddles with another bloke’s feminine side is something else.’
‘Are you saying Richard Hammond is gay?’
‘What? No, well. I don’t know, he might be.’
‘Frank Lampard probably wears pointy shoes,’ I said.
‘He bloody does not!’ Dad yelled.
‘You’re such a homophobe,’ I said.
‘I am sodding not,’ he replied, annoyed. ‘I don’t care what blokes get up to in the bedroom. The thing I don’t like is when they pretend to be girls.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know, shoes with heels, handbags, ballet … bloody needlework! These are not things for men.’
I nodded wisely, inwardly thinking, HE MUST NEVER EVER KNOW ABOUT ME.
30th November
Mum’s away again, and Dad’s struggling a bit without her. We’d run out of dishwasher tablets this morning so he put a mixture of salt, rinse aid and Fairy Liquid in the Zanussi and when I got back from school the kitchen was full of soap bubbles. It’s like living with Paddington Bear, sometimes.
2nd December
Mum’s back! She got home tonight, looking exhausted and collapsed into an armchair. Molly came and sat on top of her to watch Strictly Come Dancing. Dad offered to cook a celebratory meal for us all; we could hear him clattering away in the kitchen. He popped his head round the door after a bit.
‘Drink?’ he asked Mum.
‘Whisky and soda please,’ she replied, sighing contentedly.
‘Stiff one?’
‘Just the drink, thanks.’
After we’d sewn all our sides back up again, I asked how her tour had been.
‘Good, mostly,’ she said. ‘A bit of an awkward moment in Crewe, when the member of the audience I invited up on stage to help me with a trick turned out to be shit-faced.’
‘What’s shit-faced?’ Molly asked.
‘Oops,’ Mum said. ‘Forgot you were there. It means had a bit too much to drink, petal. Anyway, she’s stumbling about all over the place, and everyone’s laughing. I managed to get her into the wardrobe, and then when I opened the doors, she’d completely disappeared.’
‘So?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that the point?’
‘No, she wasn’t supposed to disappear at all. She was supposed to still be in the wardrobe but wearing a different colour dress,’ Mum said. ‘It’s a very sophisticated trick. It subverts the audience’s expectations.’
‘But it was your expectations that were subverted,’ I said.
‘Welcome to my world,’ she said.
‘So where had she gone?’
‘Not sure. Her husband came and accosted me after the show. She turned up eventually, in the upstairs bar.’
‘Wow, good trick.’
‘If only I knew how I’d done it,’ Mum said, face screwed up in concern.
I laughed. It was good to have her back.
‘Have you told him?’ she asked me quietly.
‘Eh?’
‘Have you told him about the you-know-what?’
I shook my head and she gave me a look.
‘I will,’ I said. ‘I will tell him.’
‘Good.’
After a bit Dad came in, looking worried.
‘Susan,’ he said. ‘I’ve dropped a Toblerone in the stew.’
‘OK, Heston,’ Mum said, pushing Molly off and climbing to her feet. ‘Step away from the cooker. I’ll fish it out, you go and open some wine.’
What with the zinc in the water, and Dad’s cooking, I’m amazed I’ve made it to seventeen.
3rd December
Just got back from Mrs Frensham’s. Mum’s making tea so it’s taking for ever, of course. Not that I mind, she cooks proper food. Spag bol tonight, with posh Sainsbury’s garlic bread. When Mum’s away it’s usually just eggs and bacon on toast or sausages and baked beans from a can. British Cassoulet, Dad calls it.
Mrs Frensham was in a funny mood today. She smiled as she let me in, almost as if she was pleased to see me. And when I got out to the shed, I noticed straight away that the knitting box had gone. Had she thrown it away? I wondered. But when she brought the tea out, she didn’t go straight back in. She stood for a bit and seemed like she wanted to talk, she was asking me what I’d found today, but didn’t really seem to be interested in the answers. I offered her the chair but she shook her head.
‘I’ll
stand while I’m still able,’ she said.
‘OK,’ I said, nibbling a Hobnob and watching her suspiciously. I tried to think of suitable topics of conversation. Should I ask after her haemorrhoids?
‘So how long you been knitting then?’ she asked eventually.
‘Um … a few months,’ I told her.
‘You like it, do you?’
I nodded. ‘I actually do, I find it calming.’
‘Yes, it is,’ she said. I watched as her heavy features scrunched themselves up into a smile before flopping back.
‘So you used to knit, but not any more?’ I asked.
‘I was mad for knitting as a girl,’ she said, her face taking on a reflective look. ‘We’d use anything we could get our hands on. We’d knit with string, when we couldn’t get wool.’
‘Was it rationed?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean rationed?’ she shot, snapping out of her reverie. ‘How old do you think I am?’
I shrugged. ‘I dunno. Eighty?’
She stared at me, her jaw sagging a little. ‘I’m sixty-one,’ she said. ‘Rationing ended when I was three.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, blushing. ‘My eyesight’s gone a bit funny since I started knitting … ’
‘I used to knit a lot when my husband was alive,’ she went on. ‘First when we were just married, I knitted baby clothes, you know, booties, bonnets, that sort of thing.’
I nodded encouragingly.
‘But the baby never came,’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ I said awkwardly. Her eyes were beginning to look a little moist.
‘So I knitted for him,’ she went on. ‘Scarves, socks, a beanie for winter. He gave me a kiss every time I finished something and told me I was a marvel.’
‘He sounds nice,’ I said.
‘He was,’ she said. A tear ran down her cheek. Was I expected to hug her? Put a reassuring hand on one of those great shoulders? And it struck me then that this Mrs F, so strong and warrior-like (and a tad violent) on the outside, was scared and lonely and sad on the inside. Maybe all adults are unravelling a bit inside? Like they’ve dropped a couple of stitches somewhere. And not just adults. I felt a bit unravelled myself sometimes.
‘Wasn’t until years later I found out from his sister that he’d always hated woollen clothes,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t stand the feeling of it against his skin. He liked rayon.’
‘Rayon,’ I said, shaking my head sympathetically. ‘Rayon.’
‘Yeah,’ she replied.
‘But he never told you,’ I said. ‘He didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, nodding. ‘He’d never have hurt a fly.’
‘No,’ I said gently.
‘Though he did once shoot a burglar up the arse with an air rifle.’
‘Well, fair enough,’ I said.
She stood for a while longer, lost in her memories. I stood awkwardly, waiting, not sure what I was expected to do.
We settled on an exchange of smiles in the end. Then Mrs F picked up the tea mugs, and the biscuits and went back into the house. I can’t say it was the most comfortable ten minutes of my life, but I’m glad I was there today when she needed someone to talk to. I’m glad I found the knitting things. I think maybe I didn’t completely mess things up today.
7th December
Dear Ms Gunter,
I thought I should email you to let you know how I’m getting on and to thank you for your efforts. Mrs Frensham’s shed is nearly cleared now, and we’re moving on to stage two of the shed renovation project, namely painting the door. I’m looking forward to that. Mrs Frensham and I are getting on quite well now, you might be surprised to hear, considering our relationship got off to such an abusive start. She now comes and drinks her tea with me. My tea breaks are getting longer and longer. We chat about all sorts of things: radio, TV, the Youth of Today, and knitting. Apparently Mrs Frensham used to be a keen knitter, she gave it up years ago but it seems having me around is starting to re-kindle her interest. I found an old box of knitting things early on, and although she told me to put them with the pile to throw away, I saw on Monday she’d actually moved it into her sitting room and taken some things out. Maybe she’ll start knitting again. I hope so. Also, I’ve been bringing her knitting magazines, once I’ve finished with them.
I’ve been telling her about the people at my knitting group, and also about my friends. I think she’s starting to recognise that Gex, Freddie and Joz are actual, real people, not just Symbols of Broken Britain.
She’s been telling me about the perils of being a lollipop lady. Mad drivers, crazy (ahem) cyclists, rude children. I’m starting to understand now why she comes across as a swivel-eyed warrior-queen. You have to be tough to do that job. Tough and possibly insane, too.
Anyway, I hope things are OK for you. How’s it going with the Home Office?
Best wishes
Ben
8th December
Went out to get more wool today for the prototype of 2Patz. Natasha wasn’t working in the shop. Another girl was there, which was OK with me. Natasha’s great, but she can talk for England and I was in a bit of a hurry to get back and crack on with my practice.
When I got home I made the mistake of coming in through the front door. Dad heard me.
‘Want to come and watch the second half, Ben?’ he called as I passed the sitting room. I stopped, groaning inwardly.
‘I’d love to, Dad,’ I said, popping my head round the door. ‘It’s just I’ve got loads of homework.’ This was true, though I had no intention of doing it.
‘Oh,’ he said, sounding disappointed.
‘How are they, er, how are Chelsea getting on?’
‘Two–one down,’ he said, ‘but we’re getting most of the ball.’
‘Lampard scored our goal, did he?’ I asked hopefully.
‘No. Hit the crossbar a couple of times,’ Dad said.
‘Oh, never mind. Game of two halves, I’m told.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ he said, pointing his beer bottle at me. I ducked out then and raced up to my room, anxious to get my hands on those needles.
It’s like a drug.
Hang on. Needles? Drugs? How have I not made that connection before?
11th December
Embarrassment newsflash! Just had a man-to-man chat with Dad. Mum’s been away this weekend and for some reason he’s gone all role-reversal. Cleaning everywhere, washing sheets, stacking the dishwasher properly. Not sure what that’s all about, but the upshot was, when I got home from school today, Dad called me into the sitting room. He had a very stern look on his face. He doesn’t do stern very well, actually. He’s about as forbidding as Louis Walsh. Nonetheless, I was suddenly nervous. There was stuff I didn’t want him to know about.
‘Please sit down, Ben,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’
What is it about that phrase that can reduce even the bravest person to jelly? If Darth Vader’s dad came into his bedroom and said, ‘We need to talk,’ poor Darth’s twisted heart would skip a beat and his breath would grow even more ragged. What have I done? he’d think. Was it the planet I blew up? Cutting my son’s hand off? Did I leave a skid mark in the Death Star bog?
‘I was tidying your room this morning, Ben,’ Dad said.
Uh-oh, please don’t tell me he’s looked under the wardrobe.
‘I found a magazine.’
Just one? Probably not the wardrobe then.
‘This magazine,’ he said, holding up the November issue of Knit!
‘Right,’ I said. This was even worse. How was I going to explain Knit!?
‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Ben?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, playing for time.
‘Well, this is clearly not yours,’ he said, ‘and your mother doesn’t knit. Not any more.’
‘No,’ I said. Then suddenly I noticed he had a sly grin on his face.
‘You’ve had a girl in your room, hav
en’t you?’
‘Um … ’
‘I don’t mind, Ben,’ he said. ‘Good for you, is what I think. If you only knew the things I used to get up to at your age. But you don’t have to go skulking around, you know?’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Introduce her to me, will you?’ he said, nodding encouragingly. ‘To me and your mum. She’s not a loony, is she?’
‘I’m not going out with a loony, no,’ I replied carefully.
‘Well,’ he said, standing up and handing me back the magazine. ‘I look forward to meeting her. Oh, and Ben?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t screw it up, will you?’ He laughed and left the room.
Next week I’ll give the magazine to Mrs Frensham. In fact I think I’ll keep all my magazines in her shed. The knitting ones, I mean. The others can stay under my wardrobe.
12th December
How can it be Wednesday again already? It’s always Wednesday. I hate Wednesdays, that’s the day Mum and Dad go out. Date Night, they call it. Apparently, it’s traditional. I pointed out once that Dad still goes out on Wednesdays even when Mum’s not here so how could it be Date Night then, but I was ignored as usual. The main reason I hate it is because I have to make Molly’s tea. She’s incredibly fussy and if it’s not Mum doing the cooking she only eats three things. Sainsbury’s apricot shreddies with semi-skimmed milk, tinned sausage and baked beans on toast or chicken goujons with pasta tubes – no sauce.
Problem is, she doesn’t like it when I cook these things, even if I make it in exactly the same way Dad does. But on Wednesdays she doesn’t have a choice and after a bit of shouting and slamming doors, and duels with pistols and armed sieges she generally ends up eating something. She does this whilst pulling the most revolted faces and gagging every few seconds. It’s not very complimentary. Tonight she actually sicked up some half-masticated beans onto the table.
How rude. Not even the angry one off Masterchef has ever done that.
After I’d cleaned up the sick, I asked her, as I am required to do by the Ancient Law of the House, if she wanted any yoghurt.
