The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘Right,’ Becky wags a finger at us both, ‘no loud noises, OK? This chap needs to sleep and I need to catch up on some Internet shopping. My new mum boobs don’t fit into my old clothes.’ She rubs her hands together. Ben looks as though he’d like to duck his whole head inside his T-shirt and hide. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Thanks for coming.’ I point to the chairs. ‘Take your pick.’ My voice is barely above a whisper and Ben responds in the same.

  ‘Why exactly is there a baby here?’

  ‘Just giving my friend Becky a break. Why, it doesn’t stress you out, does it?’ I already know it does. The idea of waking a baby and dealing with the screams that follow is the perfect heightened stress situation to really crack someone. Add in the sunlight making him blink and the climbing temperature and I have Ben just where I want him – too distracted, stressed and uncomfortable to think of anything clever. He’s going to blurt the truth whether he wants to or not.

  ‘So, I have a few questions for you. And we can keep them short and sweet, as I’m sure you’ll want to get back to London at some point today, have Sunday at home before a gruelling work day tomorrow.’ Before Ben can chip in, I press on, ‘So just answer the questions in as few words as possible, yup?’

  ‘Um, yeah, sure.’

  Chester gives a piggy snort in his sleep, as if ratifying our agreement.

  ‘OK. Here goes. Why did you come here?’

  ‘To clear the air.’

  ‘Did you start rumours about me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know I was getting fired?’

  ‘No.’ Ben’s voice is so definite it’s a little too loud, and the baby flinches in his zoo-print chair.

  ‘Have you benefited from me leaving the company?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Answer the question.’ I’m leaning forward on my knees, my legs just inches from his.

  ‘Yes,’ he concedes. ‘I’ve inherited your client list.’

  ‘Aha!’ I jab at the air with one triumphant finger. I knew it.

  ‘Which was hardly my decision. And I’m not a villain in this, Blackthorn, but I’m also not an idiot. I was told to take up more responsibility and I’m going to do it. I want job security, just like everyone else.’

  I can’t really get him there. I mean, if the loafer was on the other foot, I’d do it too.

  ‘Did you get a pay rise?’

  His eyes narrow. ‘Yes, they matched what they had already been paying you.’

  Interesting.

  ‘But you say you feel bad about what’s happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want to help me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have limits on that offer?’

  ‘Limits?’ Ben blinks in confusion. ‘Well, I won’t do anything illegal.’

  ‘How do you feel about knitting?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘And public humiliation?’

  ‘Uh, Blackthorn—’

  ‘Didn’t you say you wanted to help?’

  ‘I did, but—’

  ‘But nothing. There’s a crucial task you can help me with. And then you’re off the hook and you no longer have any implied guilt or sense of obligation towards me. You never even have to see me again. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ha HA!’ My gleeful bark of laughter unfortunately wakes up Chester who makes a sweet little mewling noise in complaint.

  Becky’s head pops round the doorway. ‘Oh, you sod, Dee. I haven’t even checked out my online shopping. You’d better get him in the pram and out the door before he has a chance to work up into a full lather.’ She looks between Ben and me: his pale, sweaty face and my beaming, victorious one. ‘Maybe you can walk your guest here back to the station?’

  * * *

  It seems I’m not as talented at manipulating a shop display into looking half decent as I am at manipulating grown men into doing my bidding. I had this plan that I was going to recreate an autumnal scene with all different kinds of wool in yellows, oranges, reds and even the few specialist metallic gold ones we stock. Simple, I thought, I’ll unravel each one a bit so they can dangle from the ceiling on the loose bit of yarn. Then they’ll look like falling leaves. But what I hadn’t factored in was there was nothing for me to hang them from. And when I finally had taped them awkwardly to the small plasterboard ceiling in the tall bay window that served as our shop window, they hung limply and lamely. Less like a tumble of crisp, colourful leaves and more like pants on the washing line that have just been caught in a surprise shower.

  I hate to say it, but I’m out of ideas. This visual stuff has never been my forte. I was always asking to do Cubism in my art lessons at school because at least that way I got to use a ruler. This is definitely JP’s arena but neither does he have a literal free hand to help me nor can he physically fit into this cramped space with his plaster casts. So, I’m sitting cross-legged in the window, head in hands and wishing I could outsource this for free. This needs to get done as part of the shop’s reboot – having a few balls of wool in a wicker basket is not eye-catching enough, as much as JP says he hates to put his lovely wares in the sun and risk them fading. A bit of fading is worth it to bring in more trade and make for more desirable pictures of the website, too. I want a damn flashy picture to go with my presentation to MCJ. From a quick bit of competitor stalking online, I’ve seen chic London haberdasheries with window displays that look like underwater scenes, pearlescent fabrics shimmering against crocheted fish, or sweet shop jars full of colourful treats good enough to eat and certainly good enough to splurge cash on. I want our shop window to be an experience for our shoppers, to put a spring in their step and entice craft nerds, not just be a mostly empty space to catch dust bunnies.

  At work, if I ever came across part of a project that wasn’t in my skill set, I was mature enough to recognize my limits and scour my contacts for someone who could do the job perfectly. Nothing wrong with delegation. In fact, it’s one of the key skills all my business books give as essential for entering the management level before you’re 40 – not that that’s looking likely for me right now. All I manage at the moment is JP’s washing and the loo roll supplies in the flat. But I will come back fighting – you can’t keep Delilah Blackthorn down. No, sir.

  I’m lost in a thought of how much fun it would be to wrap Devon’s car up in wool, like those Yarn Bombers JP showed me online last night, when a gentle knock behind me brings me back to the less fun here and now. I twist round awkwardly from my spot and see Patti tapping the window pane with a circle of wire.

  ‘Want a hand?’ she mouths through the thick glass.

  I scramble towards the door before she has time to reconsider.

  * * *

  Once I’ve explained my idea to Patti, she nods thoughtfully, her fingers twirling in her soft grey hair all the while, and says, ‘That’s doable. Sure.’ I could kiss her, if that wouldn’t be a total thunder-stealer for JP.

  We twist lengths of the wire she’s brought from the framing shop with the loose lengths of wool, so the wire is almost invisible, leaving one end hooked deep inside the ball. That gives us the strength to angle the falling ‘leaves’ in a way that actually looks like it has some movement behind it, some sort of design, rather than soggy laundry. Patti asks if I have any old newspapers lying around, and offers to put the kettle on.

  Now this is a brother’s girlfriend I could be happy with, I think. I’m quite parched from all my muttered swears in the stuffy window. But rather than brewing me a cuppa, Patti starts making a big bowlful of tea. Maybe it’s a hipster thing? I mull. Then she grabs a pencil from the middle kitchen drawer (always guaranteed, in any kitchen, to be full of random junk and at least one pencil) and sketches out a rough leaf shape. ‘We cut these out,’ she says, ‘scrunch them a little and dip them in the tea. Leave them to dry on your radiator and you’ve got some extra russet foliage, for a contrast of texture. And to fill the space up a bit more.’ I gaze
at her in full-on wonder. How has she turned something so basic into something so striking? I could do with her in my contacts list.

  So now it’s two hours later and we’ve scattered the leaves on the floor of the bay window and Blu-Tacked a few reaching up the walls, too. It really does add the finishing touch and as we unfold ourselves from the teeny space and file out to admire it from the other side of the road, I hear a pair of granny-aged ladies coo, ‘Now isn’t that something!’ Bingo. Objective achieved.

  I turn to Patti once the ladies are out of earshot. ‘Some happy would-be customers there, I think. I really owe you one, Patti. I would have shoved everything in the bin by now and given up, without you.’

  She shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Real art takes a bit of perspiration. You had the vision – I just helped it come alive.’

  ‘It really does seem alive, doesn’t it?’ I say out loud, before I pull myself up. That is not a Delilah thing to say. This is not a skirt-suit, professional, get-shit-done thing to say. Clearly I have travelled too far into the craft rabbit hole and it has turned me loopy. On the other hand, this is the most creative I think I’ve ever been, and I’m proud of it. But to stop myself suddenly banging on about harmony and mindfulness – which would be the sign of a complete brain transplant with JP, worthy of an ’80s movie – I change the subject. ‘Do you do installations as part of your art studies? Is that how you knew about the wire and the tea?’

  A small smile curves her lips. ‘Yeah, pretty much. The average student art room these days doesn’t have the funding for cows in formaldehyde or skulls encrusted with jewels. So you learn how to be pretty creative with the contents of the garage. And you should see what I can do with a hot glue gun.’ She flicks up her dainty eyebrows and I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘So our knitting class must have seemed pretty tame by comparison, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. I’m in awe of anyone who has that kind of skill, where someone has invested hundreds of hours to master something. In that respect, knitting is no different from sculpture, or sketching, or painting.’

  Interesting. I might press the point while it’s presenting itself. ‘I know what you mean. Some people might get into these crafts because they’re suddenly trendy,’ I’m thinking of a perfect black leather jacket slung over a chair. ‘But JP has this amazing dedication to what he does beyond fads. He loves how it can change people, centre them, mellow them out. Well, anyone but me. Knitting makes me feel like I’ve got goalkeeper’s gloves on and I have to diffuse a bomb. But he’s the real deal. He has an artist’s soul, he’s very intuitive, very sensitive.’ She’s lowered her eyebrows now and I can tell she’s scrutinizing me. I might have pushed the little-brother PR a bit too eagerly. Another subject change, quick. ‘So do you think you might knit a hat for our campaign, for a premature baby?’

  Patti’s face brightens just a touch. ‘I’m bloody well going to try. And if I end up with random holes, I’ll just say it’s an intentional post-modern design.’ She winks and I see a swipe of emerald eyeliner on her lids. She really is so very cool, but now not disarmingly so. JP’d better get cracking on his charm offensive before she moves abroad and gets seduced by a German video-artist-slash-beard-model.

  There’s a sharp whistle behind me, a three-note signal that our mum used to use to call us in for dinner. I turn and there’s JP, happily walking up the street, going as fast as his plaster casts will allow.

  ‘Hello there,’ he nods to us both, his eyes stopping on Patti.

  ‘We’ve just been talking about you,’ I say, and JP looks at me with narrowed eyes which seem to mutter, ‘You’d better not have been.’

  ‘Yes, about the woolly hat campaign,’ Patti chimes in, unaware of the thousands of tiny daggers hitting me in the face. ‘Your sister was telling me about it. I’m in. And anything else you need, by the way, just shout. I love a community project.’

  JP murmurs, ‘You’re awesome,’ and Patti blinks a few times before quickly inspecting her gold lamé trainers.

  A desperate cough is in order. ‘Ahem, sorry, frog in my throat.’

  From the very visible whites in JP’s eyes, I can tell he didn’t mean to say that out loud and now he’s panicking more than a kid who’s forgotten his PE kit and is about to do three laps in his underwear.

  ‘You are… awesomely generous, to give some of your time to our campaign. And actually, we could use an artist’s eye on designing some posters to gather support? We’ll put some up locally but the main audience is online, so it’s got to be something that would work on small screens too. Does that sound like something you could get involved with? I mean, this is all JP’s baby, of course, so…’

  JP breaks off from nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. ‘Uh, yeah. Yeah. That would be… awesome.’ Obviously having a major crush turns my brother’s vocab into that of a Mutant Turtle.

  I point between the two of them, a big dumb frown plastered strategically on my face. ‘Actually, do we have your number, Patti? So we could map something out?’

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, I’m holding the door open for JP’s lumbering frame and his phone is holding the digits for Patti Saunders.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I smile as I help him negotiate the shop and take up his spot on the stool behind the till.

  ‘Welcome?!’ JP splutters, his cheeks going red. ‘You want me to be grateful?! You should be grateful I don’t have two hands free to give you a serious Chinese burn. Especially without Mum here to hold me back.’

  I plant my hands on my hips. ‘Uh, excuse me, but did you not just go into that conversation a bumbling fool and yet come out of it with a cool girl’s number, thanks to my steering? That kind of consulting work usually costs about £200 an hour at work, thanks.’

  JP blows out a big puff of angry air, his cheeks momentarily looking like two fat tomatoes being squeezed of their juice. ‘Yes, but that’s the thing – you managed me in front of Patti. So now she’ll think I’m a hopeless loser who needs his sister to get him a date.’

  ‘If the woolly hat fits…’ I whisper, as I tuck an errant skein of lavender-coloured wool back into its correct place in the colour spectrum. All the wools, within their thickness and brand groups, are now stacked in the rainbow spectrum. JP might have thought it a naff thing to do, but he can’t deny it brings a new feeling of beautiful symmetry to the shop.

  ‘Watch it. I may be two workable thumbs down but I’m not a total idiot.’

  ‘But before I stepped in you didn’t even have her number, or a way to see her again! I’ve got you a guaranteed two or maybe three chances to hang out and show off how dedicated you are to your craft. Which she really digs, by the way.’

  ‘Really?’ The flustered wind leaks out of JP’s sails for a second and his eyebrows dart up in surprise. ‘She said that?’

  I turn my back and stalk to the other end of the shop, pretending to inspect the new zip layout, again in a rainbow arrangement and sizes clearly distinguished. Not the dump bin of tangled horror JP had in place before. ‘But I don’t want to interfere…’

  ‘Too late. You have. But at least something good has come of it.’ He pulls a sulky bottom lip arrangement, one he knew was bound to charm football stickers from our mum in the early ’90s.

  I bark out a short laugh. ‘I don’t get it! I was helping you, pretty effectively as it turns out, and you’re in a mope. Men are weird.’

  JP shakes his head mournfully. ‘That’s just it. You don’t get men. A brother or a male friend would never have done that, right in front of me. They would have let me do my thing, in my time. You… you just don’t get how men think.’

  OK, my sense of humour is rapidly diminishing, like a pack of digestives on a Sunday afternoon.

  ‘Excuse me, I know just how men think. I have spent many hours of my life poring over market research reports that show how men view themselves, their families, their careers, their disposable income, their… needs for a triple-blade razor, fo
r Christ’s sakes! Men are not as complicated as you want to believe, sunshine.’

  ‘Yeah? When’s the last time you had a boyfriend then, sis?’

  I let the long zip that I’ve been playing with fall back against the display. ‘Very mature. Nice one.’

  JP’s voice goes croaky. ‘I’m sorry, Dee. I didn’t… I shouldn’t…’

  I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. ‘Well, if you’re so desperate for more male company, I have good news for you.’

  * * *

  It’s hard to give someone the cold shoulder when you’re helping them fold their laundry so I have decided to forget JP’s little dig in the shop and focus on the bigger picture. Sure, my love life has taken a back seat to my career. Way back. Like my career is driving the coach and my love life is uncomfortably perched over the revving engine at the back, trying not to heave. But that’s just temporary. Everyone knows you have to establish yourself in your career in your 20s and 30s, then you can do the lovey-dovey stuff. And to be honest, I haven’t felt like I’ve ever been missing out. Some of my uni mates went through horrific break-ups either right after graduation or just before turning 30 and hitting the old ‘What does it even mean?!’ roadblocks of life. They lost weight, they stopped paying attention at work, they got seriously bad haircuts… Clarissa even got a really regrettable tattoo that said Dance like no one’s watching across her lower back. It looked like it had been tattooed with no one watching, not even the tattoo artist, and she had to save for two very painful years to get it very, very painfully removed. Ouch.

  Just the memory of it makes me rub my back above my jeans, or maybe it’s aching because I’ve been sitting at the rickety kitchen table again and lost track of time. It’s 1.23 a.m. but only now are my eyes starting to get dry and scratchy from all the screen time. I’ve been dropping pictures of the newly organized and painted shop into a document and putting in some convincing but short blurb about how the bricks-and-mortar side of the business acts as a community hub, combined with an event space – I’ll put a picture of our baby-hat class in just under the text. I’m deliberating on whether to mention the campaign to knit the premmie baby hats in the pitch document; it’s great for social and community engagement but I don’t want MCJ to think JP is distracted by too many good causes to run a tight ship too.