The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  I’m not going to share this whole plan with JP, not exactly as I’m writing it, anyhow, as a phrase like ‘brand strength’ will send him into a spasm of fake gagging noises. But it isn’t just wanky business jargon – JP is not making the most of his brand, and that’s bad business sense. He’s a young guy who knits. That’s a better USP than I’ve seen in a long time, and my brother could be doing so much more with it. The blog name – About a (Knitting) Boy – is catchy and fun, and I think JP just needs a bit more of a nudge to put himself front and centre. He does vlog and it’s always from the heart, so he has some great subscriber numbers on YouTube, but he could be pushing himself more as the face of the business. He’s a single and (although it pains me to say it) attractive guy, with a talent most ladies would find heart-melting. He could do a lot for the reputation of knitting, if he just stepped into the limelight. So I’m going to train that spotlight on him in the next few weeks, and he’ll just have to get ready for his close-up. I know what his potential is, even if he doesn’t.

  ‘That all looks rather flash.’ Mags smiles down at me, a wilting begonia tucked under each arm.

  ‘Thanks, Auntie. Nearly done. Can I get you a coffee?’

  She shakes her head, getting the voluminous sky-blue scarf wound around and around her neck caught up in the flower heads. ‘You keep at it, I’ll get one. No night nurse tonight for mum so I will have to be alert, should Extra Granny need me!’ Her smile dips a little. ‘Oh. I forget you haven’t called her that in ages.’

  ‘She’ll always be our Extra Granny,’ I smile. ‘I can come one night, you know. We could swap charges now and then? You yourself always say a change is as good as a rest.’

  Maggie rolls her eyes, the twinkle back once again. ‘No, no. You have your busy work to do, and I know all of Mum’s ways by now. She’d miss me, I think. So what is all this you’re doing?’ She nods down at my screen. ‘Looks swish. Is it part of a job application? A new role, Delilah?’

  I look down at my plans. ‘You could say that, Mags. You could say that.’

  Chapter 9

  A circle of chairs is one of those odd things in life that can have two opposing meanings at the same time. On one hand, it’s the sign of social togetherness and ease and unity; on the other hand, it’s the sign of social togetherness and anxiety and awkward coughing. But love it or hate it, a circle of chairs is what we have smack bang in the middle of Blackthorn Haberdashery tonight. Tonight is the night of the class and I’ve been busy all afternoon getting things just so. I’ve hefted the display units to one side to make room, but rotated them so that products related to tonight’s projects are still reachable. The tape measures in a range of jazzy prints and with funny animal-shaped cases are my favourite at the moment, I think because they remind me of the Mary Poppins film, which I loved so much when I was little. If she had her tape measure on me tonight, my height would probably read, Delilah Blackthorn: laughs in the face of adversity, but is strangely intimidated by knitting enthusiasts. Because, weirdly, I am. I’m not nervous about giving presentations to company CEOs or talks to lecture halls full of MBA students. But I have got the right collywobbles about eight strangers staring me in the face while I try to clumsily knit one and purl the other. I could barely force down my second Jaffa Cake with tea this afternoon. Maggie double-checked the expiration date on the packet, she was that thrown by my lack of appetite as we packed up Internet orders together.

  I just feel… out of sorts. Out of my depth. Out of place. I suppose, when I’m in a public speaking role in my professional life, I know just what’s required of me. Like any good consultant I know my client’s needs and I address them. But what do these beginner knitters need? Not an economics graduate who can speak some light Swedish but who knits as though she’s angry with the wool. Still, I can make them tea and hide behind the kettle if I get flustered.

  ‘Tea monitor reporting for duty!’ Maggie salutes as she shuffles her boots on the welcome mat. Oh, poo. There goes my alibi. ‘I have the night off,’ she wiggles her head, ‘so I thought I’d come back and help out with tonight. Stick my oar in!’ Her tinkling laugh fills the shops. ‘I’m actually not a bad knitter myself,’ she says quietly, out of the corner of her mouth, so JP doesn’t hear from his position in the living room.

  ‘Thank you,’ I breathe, clasping my hands in front of me. ‘It’s still all Greek to me.’

  ‘Mags!’ JP calls from the back. ‘Sorry to be a berk but can you put my bobble hat on for me? It’s really hard without thumbs!’

  * * *

  Most of our students are now sitting in the circle, half staring down into their laps and half happily rubbing their knees while making idle chit-chat, proving the circle has two sides. We have three teens, bubbly friends with a stack of woven bracelets each at their wrists, clearly loving the crafty trend of the moment. Two forty-something women who look like they could be sisters and are both poring over a phone screen, whispering and giggling. I catch sight of a celeb nip slip on the display – maybe they’re here not so much for a craft trend as a cheeky night away from mum duty, which is fair enough. Two empty seats to fill and we can kick off. Why do I feel like I’m about to sit finals again?

  I rearrange the biscuits on their plate for the fifteenth time. I tighten my ponytail. A part of me is enjoying not having to worry about proper blow dries while I’m temporarily away from office life, just strapping my hair up in a hair tie and forgetting about it. And I can definitely forget about getting my highlights redone for the foreseeable future, not until I have a new wage packet on the way. One trip to Benito’s salon in the next town, would take out about a month’s worth of groceries.

  ‘Hello, everyone! I’m JP, great to meet you.’ JP crab-walks sideways through the back entrance, into the shop. The casts make his frame wider than usual and the narrow doorways of this old building aren’t cooperating. He’s got a neon-green bobble hat pulled down at a funny angle and a smile bright enough to power the Blackpool Tower. This is JP’s happy place. He takes everyone in. ‘Have we all got tea before we kick off?’

  I see the teens and mums take in his two broken arms with wide eyes and open mouths. JP laughs it off. ‘Slight mishap, er, rescuing a cat from a tree. It was a heavy cat. But I have my trusty assistants tonight, my sister Dee is here, for starters, to supply all the drinks and help you through our project. Speaking of which…’ He dances his chin up and down, to make the bobble wobble. It does the job of changing the subject. ‘This is what we’ll be making. Your very own bobble hat!’ The girls gasp in awe, one even gives a squeal. ‘I went for Incredible Hulk green, but you are free to pick your own colour. What you want to do is grab a ball you like from that pigeonhole over there.’ He nods vaguely so I help out by pointing at the right cubby. ‘You want it to say Chunky Feel, Extra Thick on the label.’

  The two older ladies explode into laughter behind their hands, as the teen gang rush to pore over the yarns. We have inky blues, hot fiesta pinks, sunset yellows and some charcoal grey which I’m eyeing for myself. I’m hoping a neutral, less attention-grabbing colour like that might be more forgiving of the bad knit job I’m about to perform. For an audience. Christ.

  JP supervises the yarn rummaging and the laughter is replaced by a burble of happy nattering and murmurs of approval as wools are held up to the light or against coats to check for clashes. With this backdrop of contented activity, the shop door opens with a whoosh of head-clearing fresh air.

  ‘Room for a little one?’ Becky is pink-cheeked and shiny-eyed, dressed in a big khaki anorak with a furry hood.

  ‘Hey! This is a nice surprise. But what about Chester?’ I quickly catch myself up for blurting out something that sounds so judgey. I sound like I’m accusing her of abandoning her baby. ‘Sorry, no, I meant…’

  But as she unzips her coat I can see exactly where Chester is: wrapped up tight in a stretchy bandage-type sling on Becky’s front, happily snoozing and occasionally snoring for good measure.

  �
�He’s been such a peach, honestly, just feeding and sleeping, feeding and sleeping. So Matt said, why not get out? I can feed him anywhere and he’s happy sleeping on me. I love it too, if I’m honest.’ She rubs one finger along the gingery fuzz covering the top of his head and then kisses him. All our students make sighing noises from the corner. Clearly a cute baby as shop dressing is an added bonus to the crafting experience. I’m definitely not complaining: a chance to see Becky and her boy, plus an ally in the wings should I get things hideously wrong and end up with some demented sock instead of a hat.

  I take her coat to the hat stand. ‘If you want to go into the flat to feed him or change him, just go through, whenever you need to. Mags’s hanging about back there. I don’t know if you remember her, but she’s our unofficial aunt and she’s lovely. She’ll show you where everything is.’ I put my arm around her shoulders. ‘I am seriously happy to see you!’

  She leans her head down onto my shoulder just briefly. ‘Me too. Ever since you brought us those hats I have been dying to understand how they come together, so I could make one myself. Speaking of which, come here, you!’ Her hazel eyes fill with tears and she approaches JP. Their hug is like a complex origami challenge: folding around his plaster casts and not squishing Chester, nestled by her cleavage. But some kind of hug is eventually achieved and as Becky wipes away a few tears I can see JP is blinking back some of his own.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she says into his jumper.

  ‘S’nothing, yeah, you’re welcome,’ he mumbles quietly.

  She leans back and looks up at him. ‘It’s not nothing! It’s amazing!’ Becky turns around to the huddle of students at the pigeonholes. They are drinking in this emotional scene, clearly delighted to get biscuits and a show in their ticket price. ‘This guy got his knitting buddies to make little hats for my boy, when he was born prematurely. It’s… it’s so brilliant because it’s vitally important premmie babies stay very warm at all times and it can be hard to find things small enough to fit properly. And besides that, in a really scary time, people were thinking of us. And that means the world.’ She sniffs. ‘Come on, Becks, hold it together. No crying on your first night out!’ she admonishes herself with a sardonic smile.

  ‘That is amazing,’ one of the crafty teens says, a girl with long jet-black hair and perfect cat-flick eyeliner. ‘Can we make little baby hats? Tonight, I mean, instead of grown-up ones? Then we could give them to you.’ She smiles at Becky just as Chester lets out a deep snuffle of a snore. More and more I’m understanding why JP has found himself so at peace in this craft community: people create and share, just for the fun of it. There’s no competition, no point-scoring, no ulterior motives. It’s like a cult without the bad bits and with added frequent tea breaks.

  Becky blushes and shakes her head, causing Chester’s to wobble just a fraction. ‘Don’t, you’re going to make me go again. JP and Dee have already given me seven hats – Chester has got one for every day of the week! Including a jazzy purple one for dress-down Fridays.’ She sneaks another kiss onto his sweet little head. ‘But if you did want to make one, I kept in touch with two other mums from the neonatal ward. I bet they’d love them!’

  The teens clap like happy high-school seals and the two mum friends nod vigorously. ‘Count us in,’ one of them calls, pushing up the sleeves of her red polo-neck jumper, ready for crafty action.

  JP clears his throat to find his teacher voice again. ‘Well. Brilliant! In that case, let’s move away from the Chunky yarns and down here to the Double Knitting, which is just right for finer things and baby stuff. We’ll have to work off my sister’s iPad for the pattern, if you don’t mind, as I don’t have a handout ready. But the good news is that these are possibly one of the quickest things to do – you can plunge straight in easily, and the feeling of satisfaction is immense!’

  There’s another minor eruption of laughter as the class move further into the shop to look at the finer yarns and I decide to keep my eye on the two mum friends. They are incorrigible.

  I sidle over to JP, who is discreetly scratching his back on the corner of the counter. ‘So, do you think Patti might come?’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘I asked her, she said it sounded sweet. Which could mean any one of 10,000 things in the language of women, I’ve come to learn.’ He lets out a low sigh. ‘I kept a spot open for her tonight. So we’ll see. If you’re right and I’ve got to work my arty boy angle, then I really, really hope she comes. She’s so cool. And I think I’m at that point where I want a proper relationship, you know? I want to meet the parents, share a starter, get a mortgage. All that stuff, do you know what I mean?’ His blue eyes are very still as they catch mine.

  ‘Um, I suppose. But that’s great, bro. I hope she turns out to be the One. And how could she not fall for the hottest male crafter of the decade? If not the centu—’

  Just then a flash of a black leather jacket against a brilliant white T-shirt catches my eye at the doorway. For a second I feel like I’m in that Levi’s ad in the laundrette, the one that helped me through puberty. Pushing through the door is a guy with a lean figure and a jaw that looks like it could slice bread. He could be lost on his way to a casting call, his steely grey eyes moving around the shop as if looking for a street sign. The teens almost seem to synchronize their drooling.

  ‘Can I help you, mate?’ JP asks.

  ‘Hi!’ His smile is twinkly, lifting up on one side more than the other. Oh, boy. ‘I’m here for the class?’

  ‘Perfect.’ JP forces the word out through teeth clamped shut. ‘Come in and choose your wool. What’s your skill level, can I ask?’

  The model takes off his perfectly supple jacket and places it on the back of a chair. ‘I’d say intermediate, warming up to good. But I’m self-taught, so I thought I’d come and get some expert guidance. I love your vlogs, mate. About a (Knitting) Boy, right? I totally get what you mean about doing something with your hands being so soothing, there’s nothing that chills me out more.’

  The mum mates look ready to explode as they each grab two red balls of wool and make googly eyes.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ JP nods and turns on the spot, to grumpily mouth at me, ‘No way!’

  Can you still say you have a USP if there’s just one more person with those same qualities? You are still 99.99 per cent unique, really, amongst the general population. The bad news for JP right now is that in this room, 100 per cent of the men are exactly like him. He’s about as unique as a Starbucks latte.

  The door opens again and Patti slips in, her dip-dyed hair in two loose braids, giving her a perfectly dishevelled look against a faded Metallica T-shirt. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late, I was getting a lesson on canvas stretching from my uncle.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Where shall I sit?’

  I pretty much leap on her, pulling her away from the hunk and towards the back of the shop. ‘This way! Let’s hang your coat up and get you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Do you have any fresh mint?’ Patti asks, hopeful.

  ‘That sounds great. I’ll have the same!’ the hunk chips in.

  Right. He’s going to be a problem.

  Chapter 10

  ‘I am ridiculously proud of myself.’ I hold my three rows of knitting up to the shop light, double-checking again that there aren’t any rogue holes I’ve not spotted. I managed to cast on ten perfectly good stitches, on just my fourth go, in the class and then I knitted three rows of stocking stitch! JP was right, I was the perfect test case: once the others found out I was a total newbie, the floodgates of questions and queries opened, and JP fielded them all with a calm, confident manner. When we got on to decreasing, though, my head hurt and I had to quit while I was ahead, going to wash the cups up for a new tea round and slice up the coffee and carrot cakes. Mags had been busy in the flat during the class, I think putting away JP’s clean underwear for him while he couldn’t see, to save them both an awkward moment. I took her an extra big bit of cake for her efforts. I think we’re all looking forward to JP re
gaining the full use of his arms and taking back control of his unmentionables. Four weeks to go.

  It’s just JP, Becky and me on the shop floor now, them ‘supervising’ while I put the chairs and display units back to their rightful places. The chairs fold up and live in the shed; the display units need a gentle push or else a showering of needle cases, pinking shears and snap fasteners will scatter everywhere – I’ve already learned at my cost. The class pupils said their goodbyes half an hour ago, floating out the door on a cloud of warm chatter and a puff of pride; all of them proudly clutching their half-finished hats, eager to get home and complete them. Hopefully they’ll come good on the rest of the knitting and the sewing up (JP recommended they check out his vlog tutorial on the subject or pop back in for guidance), and send the hats on to Becky’s mates. What was really sweet was that one of the teens circulated a sign-up sheet, torn from her diary, so everyone could swap numbers and keep track of their crafty efforts. Whether it was a nifty ploy to get the hunk’s digits it’s hard to say, but even if it was, I liked her chutzpah.

  The leather-jacketed stud didn’t prove to be as much of a distraction to Patti as I thought he might: it was like she was blind to his perfect hotness, and kept her eyes trained instead on JP’s slightly ill-fitting T-shirt and the way he’d close his eyes when getting excited about teaching the next step of the process. She managed a swift bit of knitting, which makes me think she’s had some childhood training from a granny that she’s keeping on the down-low. The hunk himself – Marcus – was fairly confident but easily distracted by questions from the rest of the class: ‘Are you a model?’; ‘Does your girlfriend knit too?’; ‘Do you want a lift home?’. After that last one, the mum who asked the question got a slap on the arm from her mate who whispered, ‘Married! Remember?’ into her ear. I think he’s quite used to the attention and thrives on it.