The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  Once I stepped back from guinea-pig duties and serving snacks, I also got busy taking some pictures of the class. Something to help spruce up the site and a nice visual to drop into my presentation to MCJ, showing the diverse nature of the business: retail, online and events. At Blackthorn Haberdashery, we’ve got it all… I’m still mulling over a good branding line as I set the shop back to rights and fish out JP’s broom for a quick sweep.

  ‘Your hobbies all sewn up… hmm. Cheesy, but might work.’ I push the odds and ends of snipped yarns into one multicoloured pile.

  ‘What are you muttering in there?’ Becky has taken up a comfy pose on the sofa, Chester propped on loads of cushions on her lap as she feeds him. True to her word, he didn’t let out a peep all evening, he just fed and slept, on repeat. She seems to read him instantly: feeding, burping, changing, singing just as he needs it, so he doesn’t ever really have cause to get frustrated and reach police-siren levels. Becky is a natural at all this mum business. It’s weird on one hand to see someone who you mostly associate with alcopops and watching Titanic at the cinema for the eighth time now become a parent and responsible for a whole other human being, but on the other hand it fits Becky so well and she seems so in her element that it makes perfect sense to me.

  ‘Oh, um, nothing. Do you need anything in there?’

  ‘I’m set, thanks. Still full of tea and cake. I should get out of your hair, though, it’s nineish, I think.’

  ‘Nah,’ JP butts in, ‘stay as long as you like. We’re sick of each other by now. This is the most time we’ve spent under one roof since Eurocamp when we were kids. Though that was worse, because the roof was made of tarpaulin and there was no escaping Dee’s sleep-talking.’

  I swipe gently at his feet with the broom. ‘I do not sleep-talk.’

  ‘You do. You used to sing B*witched songs. In a bad Irish accent. Becky laughs. ‘Well, your pain is my gain. I love having you back in town, Dee. All the other mums I’ve met have these giant, full-term babies that make me feel self-conscious about Chester still being teeny weeny. And everyone else is at work— Oh God, sorry.’

  I rest the broom against the wall. ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m really happy to be here too. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have had the time to have seen Chester till his first year of school, let alone in his first month of life. I love working, I love what I do, but it’s not exactly easy to fit a life around a 70-hour week.’

  ‘Any nibbles at all on the interview front?’ JP asks in a soft voice.

  ‘Nope. But it’s fine. I’ve found someone to rent my flat, so that’s the mortgage covered for now. I’m on the waiting list for the most recommended career consultant. And while I’m working things out, I can help you with the shop, maybe see if we can get you a bit of investment, hmm?’

  ‘And you’re learning to knit,’ Becky interjects.

  ‘I will remember to add that to my CV,’ I deadpan.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m a natural knitter myself,’ she goes on, as she walks back onto the shop floor with Chester now over her shoulder and a muslin cloth underneath his chin, rubbing gentle circles on his back. ‘But I love having a goal in mind, to achieve. The thing about a newborn is that you don’t get anything done. Your day is just a blur of feeds and poos. And a literal blur on the poo front – that stuff gets everywhere. Even six rows of stitches is an achievement to me. And if I can knit a hat to help another baby like Chessie, another mum like me, then that feels pretty great. Though they might only get it next Christmas, at my rate.’

  JP smiles. ‘The completion of a task is a big appeal to me too. A little feeling of control in a mad world. That’s why I’m so fed up of being Mr Lego arms. I look like a Lego man, don’t I?’

  ‘You don’t!’ I reassure him emphatically. (He does.)

  ‘Thing is, knitting a tiny hat is an evening’s work, a nice pause in the middle of a bigger knit. All the serious knitters I know can do them with their eyes closed. You saw how quickly they came rolling in for Chester. It’s a shame those other mums going through the same thing don’t know anyone with a knitting blog to put the shout out for them.’

  I take an escaped ball of ruby-red yarn back to its rightful pigeonhole, neatening the others there so they’re also facing label out. ‘That’s why I want us to work on the site, make it more visible and appealing, so more people find you.’

  ‘To knit baby hats for us?’ JP asks.

  ‘Yes, that and buy stuff. It’s good for everyone.’

  ‘Good for everyone,’ he echoes, his voice tapering off into a dreamy whisper. He’s cooking something up in that crafty brain of his. It was a look in his eyes like that which ended up with me getting a knitted phone case last Christmas. To be fair it was beautifully done and in my favourite cobalt blue.

  ‘What?’ Becky blinks, a micro-burp coming from Chester as she finishes winding.

  JP starts to nod to himself. ‘We put the knitters in touch with the mums. Those who have the skill linked up with those that have the need. If it only took a week to get Chester kitted out with hats, imagine how many other babies we could help.’

  Becky nods. ‘A nurse told me there are something like 60,000 babies born prematurely in the UK every year. I just had no idea of the scale of it, how many people are affected. One day on the ward, I was trying to distract myself and I worked out that that’s 165 every single day.’

  I put my arm around her shoulder and squeeze her in tight just briefly.

  JP joins us and leans his head on the top of Becks’s. ‘So many people, and they need a bit of help, even if it’s just a tiny thing. And you saw how the class reacted – other people love to be involved, people genuinely love to do a good deed. They’re paying it forward. And we could do it all through my website!’

  There’s a flash of excitement in my brother’s eyes as he paces up and down the empty shop. ‘It could be a collective, a craft collective. Like the pink hats thousands of women knitted to march against Trump, you know? That movement actually saw a huge spike in the sale of hot-pink yarns. I was sold out for a week.’

  ‘Keep talking, I’m listening.’ I hop up onto the counter and lean forwards on my elbows to give him my full attention.

  ‘We can supply the pattern, free of charge. Maybe even patterns for tiny cardigans and socks too. And then advise on the best yarns to use for people who are still beginners.’

  Becky starts swaying side to side – either she needs a wee or she’s getting Chester off to sleep. ‘That’s important, actually, the kind of wool you use. Because you need to be able to chuck the lot in the washing machine. There’s no spare time, or sanity come to think of it, to handwash when you have a tiny baby.’

  JP points at her, his fingers in a gun shape. ‘Yes! Brilliant. That’s the kind of insight we need to do it properly. Becks, you are officially our Mum Ambassador.’ She dips into a jokey curtsey, mid-sway, but JP’s already back in his train of thought and on to the next stage. ‘A cotton-mix yarn would work nicely, something with a subtle acrylic mix. Just not that foul Wow Wools stuff from the States – it goes all scratchy and baggy after one wash, so I’ve stopped stocking it now. Too many customer complaints.’ He awkwardly rubs his chin with a heavy arm. ‘We could aim for 165 hats – only a day’s worth of premmie babies, but it’s a start. I could do a video tutorial for new knitters to explain about yarn choice, recommend a few, and in case they get stuck do a demo… well, not straight away, but eventually.’ He looks mournfully at his two rigid forearms.

  ‘And 165, that’s not… a bit ambitious?’ I ask, cautiously.

  ‘If we think little, we do little, sis.’

  ‘OK, you’re starting to sound like a management training day now, but I’m with you. It’s a shame we can’t hold one ginormous class, really,’ I say, thinking how great for the cash flow it would be if you could squeeze 100 people in here at once and up-sell them all a ball of wool, some fancy bamboo needles and a Liberty knitting needle case.

  JP spi
ns on the spot to look at me. ‘But who says you can’t?!’ he says in one breath. ‘Quick! Get my laptop! Sis, we’re vlogging.’

  * * *

  It turns out, if I can’t get my career up and running again (the waiting list I’m on for the fancy consultant is seven weeks long, so I’m uneasily treading water till then, seeing as I’m blacklisted by recruiters and old colleagues), I could make an entire shift and work as a make-up artist or hairdresser. Or film set designer or lighting expert. Because just filming a ten-minute vlog with JP involves me checking over his face for any spots or bits of toothpaste, fluffing up his hair just so at the front and smoothing it down at the back with some styling gum I think he’s had since his gap year. I then have to check the ‘back of shot’ to make sure we haven’t left any old coffee cups or spare socks hanging about in the living room and angle three different desk lamps with mega-strong bulbs towards JP’s chair, so he’s well lit. All this for him to gabble on in front of his iPhone.

  I never knew how vain my brother really was. It’s pretty shocking. I know he’s kind of helpless right now and he can only do these things if I chip in, otherwise he’d want his privacy and fair enough. But that doesn’t mean I’m not storing this away to wind him up with at some future time when he has four functioning limbs and isn’t such a sad little puppy. He actually said, when I queried the need for hair fluffing, ‘My subscribers expect me to look a certain way.’ Bieber, eat your heart out.

  I stand back, having clipped the iPhone into JP’s rickety tripod. When I get back to earning, I’m buying him a proper one, and a light box. If he loves this, he should do it properly. But for now my role is to stand silently and make sure the stand for the phone doesn’t keel over mid-chat.

  JP nods and finds a big grin. ‘GUYS!’ he shouts, making me jump out of my trainers. ‘Big news, super big. So, remember how I said I wouldn’t be at CraftCon, because of these fellas?’ He winks down at his casts. ‘Well, sod it. I’ll be there and I want to see you, all of you, because I’m planning something BIG and I need you all to be part of it. So, check out the description box for my stand number and swing by and say hello. Milton Keynes, make the trek – it’ll be worth it. Don’t forget to book your tickets! I’ll be there with stuff you can buy from my shop as well as some of my favourite things I’ve made over the years, just to show off a bit really. Ten per cent discount for anyone wearing a pussy hat!’ I’m waving my arms in a big cross and mouthing, ‘No!’ at the mention of a discount, but JP carries on regardless. ‘Because it’s time to knit again for a worthy cause, for something that matters.’ His eyes glitter in the bright lights. ‘We’re going to make a difference. You game?’ He smiles his charming schoolboy smile. It’s really no surprise he has such high subscriber numbers amongst the loyal male craft contingent and hormonal teenage girls, not to mention randy grans.

  For a moment he freezes, his beaming smile fixed and looking straight down into the camera. Before he mutters through his frozen lips, ‘That’s it,’ and I realize he’s waiting for me to hit the off switch.

  ‘Cup of tea and then an editing session, yeah?’ JP is so keyed up, I don’t really want to admit that I was looking forward to a head-clearing run around the village, maybe down to the river and pounding it out for a good hour. Running is the only way I’ve found in the last few weeks to burn up the energy I would have usually poured into work and clients. And if I can knacker my muscles to the point of being jellyfish-like, it also helps me conk out at bedtime and not spend the night on the edge of the single mattress, thinking about overdraft limits and interview techniques. I can always run tomorrow. Besides, if this idea of JP’s, whatever it might be, means he’s going to put even more of himself into the site and the shop, that can only be a good thing for his happiness and his future stability. Stan has been keeping an eye on JP feeling busy and fulfilled enough while he’s all bound up in plaster – it’s an important part of healing and bouncing back into regular life.

  I flick on the kettle and plug the laptop in to charge at the little kitchen table. ‘So what’s CraftCon when it’s at home? I’m guessing like Comic Con but without the dressing up?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ JP gets up, stretches his legs and arches his back. ‘No cos play and no bright green wigs. But people do wear the stuff they’ve made, as a badge of honour. Mind you, in a big, stuffy arena with the heating on that’s not always a wise move. I did some permanent damage to my Spider-Man pullover the first year I went. You never really feel the same again about clothes that you’ve really sweated into.’ I’m not going to dwell on that image, though I do remember JP modelling a jumper he’d designed and knitted, in bold red and black, the Spider-Man logo central on his chest. It seemed to say, I’m a badass knitter, but also still a pubescent boy at heart. Take me or leave me. ‘Anyway, yeah, it’s a big craft convention with loads of stalls selling stuff, plus demonstrations going on all the time. I was going to cancel my stall, seeing as standing up for eight hours isn’t much fun for me right now. Plus, I can’t do the demo I was booked on, “Manly Makes with About a (Knitting) Boy”. Shame. But, when you said about getting loads of knitters together for our collective it just popped into my head – it’s where all the knitters are! If I want to reach them, that’s where I start. And you can come along and lend me your hands, right?’

  I start to feel a panicky thump in my heart at the idea of clumsily knitting under a spotlight in front of hundreds of old pros.

  JP must see the perspiration beginning to ping onto my forehead. ‘Not to do the demo, you plonker! To carry the boxes and stuff. Jesus, calm down, sis. You’re not a knitting savant. You can’t go from butchering stocking stitch to mastering Fair Isle in a few days. No, I’ll just have to let them down on the demo front, which is a shame. But you’re up for it, yeah?’

  I pause, the bullet points of my Negotiating in Business training flashing before my eyes. Lesson number 3: when you have an advantage, use it. ‘I will help you. If,’ I point a finger at him, ‘and only if you let me have free rein in re-merchandizing the shop?’ I’m happy that JP wants to get out and take his project to loads of others – it can only be a good thing for him and the business – but I’m not forgetting the nuts and bolts of good economics, either. And I’m starting to get twitchy for a project; without a hundred emails to plough through and a target to hit, I have all this leftover energy. And there are only so many times JP’s DVDs can take alphabetizing.

  ‘Sure,’ JP nods. ‘Knock yourself out. Tidy away.’

  ‘It’s a bit more than tidying, but thanks.’

  My phone buzzes on the arm of the sofa.

  Clive

  Hey, Delilah, just wondering how you’re getting on? Are you still in London? I don’t know if this is the right thing to do, but Ben has been asking me about you and how he can get in touch. I’ve been fobbing him off but just thought you should know. It would be great to catch up if you are still in town. C

  Good old Clive, still running the defensive for me, even when I’m no longer his boss. He knows me well: I’d rather put a cute kitten pic as my LinkedIn profile than have any sort of contact with Ben right now. He’s not getting the chance to gloat to my face: he can gloat alone in his swanky Mayfair apartment or wherever it is that Daddy’s money has set him up. I hope he chokes on his beluga caviar and spews on his old school tie.

  But other than that, I’m totally over it.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Who buys this stuff?!’ Becky is trying not to laugh out loud; Chester is asleep in the pram by the shop’s front door. She has two cream shoulder pads held up by just her fingers, as if they are physically repulsive. ‘Hasn’t anyone told the craft world that shoulder pads went out with Dallas?’

  I am kneeling in the middle of a mountain of stock, like a mini tornado has ripped through John Lewis and we are the only survivors. It may have been a mistake, in hindsight, to take everything down at once before starting to re-merchandize. But I’m committed now. And the pincushions actually make
for a comfy knee pad of sorts.

  ‘JP says there are just some boring essentials you have to stock, so people can mend things and trust that you carry everything. It builds loyalty. And I say fair enough, but it doesn’t mean the boring stuff should get pride of place at the front of the store. The best stuff should go at eye height, then everything else can go in rows below, in order of how well they sell or how high the unit price.’

  ‘So there’s method to your madness, then?’ Becky chucks the shoulder pads onto my pile, where they start a mini landslide of button cards and seam rippers.

  I look at her over the heap of stock. ‘Have you ever known me to do something without thinking it through?’

  She chews her bottom lip. ‘White flares with red pants underneath?’

  ‘Oh God, I hate your perfect recall of the late ’90s. In my defence, I was 14 and by the time I realized my pants were showing, I was already on the bus, halfway to the cinema. So I thought it was better to style it out.’

  ‘Style is not what we called it.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh, the memory of persuading Dwayne Carver to lend me his plaid shirt to tie round my waist coming back to me. I’d had to give him half my pick ’n’ mix.

  ‘Are you sure this isn’t boring, Becks? I could go and get you a magazine from the corner shop, you know. You, me and Chester in the shop must be boring for you. Not much of a day out, but I just really want to get this place in order as soon as I can.’

  She waves her hands in front of her face. ‘Tsk! This is absolutely perfect. The boy’s asleep, I didn’t have to make my own cup of tea, I’m not staring at my own walls but a whole other set of walls. If I have to change one more nappy with a backing track of Judge Rinder and someone saying they don’t want to pay back the £12.50 they borrowed off their aunt… Well, it won’t be pretty. I’m just happy you’re back in town.’ She pauses to take a sip of her tea. ‘Not to get too hormonal, but I missed you, you know.’