The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  It can’t be denied that JP’s blog views and social media followings have rocketed since he put the shout out about the big mystery event he’s planning, and he’s been reminding everyone online to come and see him at the fair for the big reveal so there’s been a brilliant rate of engagement. It’s only led to a small bump in online sales at the shop, though, so that’s something I need to work on. And we’ve had some feedback from loyal fans that they miss his YouTube tutorials going up. The whole site has been reskinned thanks to an old contact in Web design passing my details to a student she taught, who was eager to get something on her portfolio. I briefed the design to be clean and modern, but with hints of the same vintage turquoise colour I’d painted the shop walls. And it’s come together really beautifully: it’s easy to navigate between the retail site, JP’s blog and all his archived tutorials. If you want to buy all the kit for a cabled jumper then watch someone talk you through using a fiddly cable needle in person – we are your one-stop shop!

  We’re on our way to where I want us to be, where I want JP to be comfortably established, but we’re not there yet. And so MCJ are just going to have to wait a bit longer to see my wares. I think a few weeks just after CraftCon should do it, when JP will be riding the buzz of his big event announcement. Which reminds me. I open up Safari on my iPad and google ‘CraftCon tickets’. I need to buy a few extra exhibitor tickets, for what we’ve got planned. It’s not going to do any wonders for my bank balance, another few hundred pounds whizzing out, taking me perilously close to the bottom of my pot, but it’s an investment. And you’ve got to speculate to accumulate. Even if right now I’m only accumulating nervous eels in my stomach.

  I take a screen grab of the payment confirmation, so it can later go against company taxes, and switch over to my email. There’s something in my inbox that quickly quietens the anxiety eels thrashing about in my system and hissing that I’ll never work again: an email from Douglas McNaulty, the career consultant I’ve been so desperate to see these past weeks. He’s got a last-minute appointment in four weeks’ time. I’d still rather it was tomorrow, so I can figure out just how I get my life back on track but it’ll have to do. I’ve been lucky, he says, because someone has dropped out in favour of rehab. I kind of know how they feel, a little bit. But hopefully seeing Douglas for an intense three-hour session will put everything right. It’d better bloody do, coming in at almost four figures, not including VAT.

  The four weeks I have to wait give me plenty of time to think through my options and for this stupid rumour about me to bog off and die. Though it’s still bothering me how it even came about. It wasn’t Ben – so who was it? If it was just Devon who wanted me out, he wouldn’t have needed a rumour – the firing power was his and his alone. But someone must have got to him…

  The screen starts to wobble before my eyes. It’s not the time to unravel sabotage schemes. It’s time to hit the hay, before my head hits the Formica.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Am I doing this right?’ Ben’s voice is gravelly, but uncertain.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong girl. But if it feels right, go with it,’ I reassure him.

  ‘I don’t know… and I’m not all that comfortable being filmed. You haven’t even let me change out of my work suit…’

  I straighten up from my position behind the video camera and give him the Look. The Look he’s seen me give clients who dare to dispute my advice. The Look I give the coffee vendor when he says three extra shots in a macchiato is a bad idea. The Look that says Delilah Blackthorn doesn’t take any shit, thank you. He’s had a few days to take in the proposal I put to him at Beck’s place and if he’s come back to the village I take that as a full-on yes, so he’d better get with the programme.

  ‘OK! OK! I’ll try again. So I push it in here, but not too hard, and then I move my fingers around like this… oh, fuck, I’ve lost it. Nope, I’ve lost it.’

  I can hear JP sniggering from the kitchen, when he should have his lips clamped around the straw of his protein shake.

  ‘Anything to add, Julian?’ I call.

  He sheepishly edges into the room and stands in the doorway. ‘Sorry, guys. It sounded a bit porny from in there. Like you were making Debbie Does Double Knitting. Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do, mate, seriously. Coming out of town after work like this. Very generous.’ He makes a little head dip in Ben’s direction. ‘It will be great to get a new vid up there, after such a lull. I juuuuuuust…’ He looks to the ceiling as he tries to squeak out an objection.

  ‘What?’ Ben and I snap in unison. Clearly craft doesn’t bring out the Zen in him, either. I mean, to be fair, he’s even more of a newbie than me. Before I roped him into this at our conservatory showdown, he’d never heard of an alpaca yarn, let alone tried to do stocking stitch with it. I had to explain that he wouldn’t actually be making stockings, after he went a bit pale at the term.

  ‘I just… I don’t think that anyone will buy it’s me, even with some fancy editing and my voiceover put on later. An hour is not long enough to be able to fool the crafters out there that you’re an old pro. It’s in the confidence of your fingers, you see.’

  I think Ben and I managed to sync our eye rolls then, too.

  I hit pause on the video. ‘We know we’re taking a hit because you haven’t added anything to your YouTube channel in weeks and seeing as Ben is so keen to be helpful right now,’ I pull a wry smile. ‘I thought this made sense.’

  ‘Nope. It doesn’t. Sorry. Besides, the YouTubers don’t just love me for my hands, they love my face.’ He throws me a pouty look.

  ‘God help us.’ I slump back onto the arm of the sofa, and Ben happily drops the needles and wool he’s awkwardly holding, as if the yarn has been woven out of asbestos.

  ‘You can’t fake it, chaps. I’m the real deal. And you’re clueless.’ JP nods smugly.

  ‘Then sodding well teach me!’ Ben snaps. Hmm. Now this is one man I definitely understand – because he’s basically the male version of me. He’s been trained to hate failure, to tackle it and wrestle it to the ground until it says Uncle. To be the best at anything he chooses to take on. I can use this. I can make this work to my advantage.

  ‘Um, if you’ve forgotten or temporarily lost your powers of sight, I don’t have a free hand – never mind two – to teach you with, Ben,’ JP deadpans.

  ‘Now, now,’ I hold out my arms between them, ‘it’s not a terrible idea. OK, so JP, you can’t hold the needles and show him yourself, but wouldn’t it make a great spot on your channel if you were teaching a newbie face to face? About a (Knitting) Boy meets… Beginner Ben?’

  ‘Erm…’ Ben begins to object, but I keep talking.

  ‘It could really work. It would be… a journey. Something for the fans to follow. A real-time crafting education!’

  There’s a flash of excitement in JP’s eyes. ‘Yes, I get it! And people could comment with what they want to see him tackle next – socks or variegated yarns or super chunky…’

  ‘What words are you even saying right now?’ Ben tries to join in, but the Blackthorns are hatching a plan and it’s a family affair.

  ‘Yes! Brilliant, bro! And he could be working on a baby hat, all along, so we always bring it back to the campaign. I like it. A great way to bring other craft wannabes into the fold. I’ll get some graphics going. So what’s the first step – what should he start with?’

  ‘Casting on, definitely.’

  ‘Oh, like fishing?’ Ben chips in happily. ‘I can do that, my grandad taught me.’

  JP just lets out a low, mirthless laugh in reply. ‘Fishing? You wish. No, this is real men’s work, Beginner Ben. This is knitting.’

  * * *

  I have been looking forward to seeing Ben break during the teaching process, I have to admit: I smugly sit back behind the camera and wait for his own yarn meltdown, much like mine. But weirdly, and disappointingly, it doesn’t happen. JP tells me to switch the video on to time lapse, so tha
t the early part of the lesson can be turned into a good opening sequence, and after I have done that there isn’t all that much to do except make tea and observe. Observe the most intense budding bromance Fenwild has ever seen. It’s like Pitt and Clooney reborn, right here in this little sitting room, locking eyes over cream wool and a pair of 4-millimetre needles. Sparks have been flying, shoulders punched, winks exchanged.

  These were the last two men on earth I’d ever put together as BFFs. JP: into meditation, knitting and long walks. Ben: into career success… Well, that is all I know about him, to be fair. I suppose I never did pause long enough to share any small talk in the office corridors. He could be a mindfulness junkie for all I know; he could have hiking boots in his battered record bag, slung down by the back door. But still, the idea of Ben in my head – suited and sharp – just doesn’t fit in the haberdashery. As though a puzzle piece from the wrong box has found its way into our lives. But here he is, fitting perfectly with my little brother. Curiouser and curiouser.

  I might not have been able to call it, but if they do hit it off it’s only going to make my next plan to cash in Ben’s offer to help that bit easier.

  ‘Look!’ Ben snaps me out of my calculating daydreams, by waving two centimetres’ worth of knitting in my direction. ‘Cast on and four rows in! Niiiice!’ His smile is genuinely wide, ear to ear, and he turns to JP to high-five, bringing his hand down to squeeze my brother’s shoulder instead ‘You were right, mate, if you haven’t got those initial foundation stitches right, you’ve just got to rip ’em out and keep trying until they are spot on. Totally see the difference in the spacing and the tension now. It was worth that seventh attempt. Definitely.’ Ben is turning his handicraft this way and that, like it’s solid gold and he’s looking for the gleam.

  ‘Great effort!’ Despite the fact that they’ve been at this for about 90 minutes now, JP looks full of bounce and vigour, like a spaniel on a dogfood advert.

  ‘Shall we break for some dinner?’ Ben looks between me and my brother. ‘I could go and get us a takeaway. Do you guys fancy Thai or Mexican maybe? I can do us a Deliveroo.’

  JP is frowning like Ben has just switched into speaking Cantonese.

  ‘Lovely in theory,’ I say, ‘but Deliveroo hasn’t reached us out here in the sticks. There’s a decent fish-and-chip shop down the road, though. I’ll nip out – I should just make it before it closes.’

  ‘Shit, it’s nearly nine!’ Ben checks his chunky chrome watch. ‘Time flies when you’re casting on, huh? But I can go, Dee – Delilah. I’m happy to.’

  I’m already shrugging on my coat by the back door. ‘By the time I’ve explained the weird cut-throughs and dead-end streets of the village, I can just be there and back. But thanks.’

  Despite this, Ben is grabbing his coat from the hook next to me. ‘I really insist. Besides, I’m here to help, remember? And that includes carrying greasy fish suppers along country lanes.’

  ‘Mine’s a double battered sausage!’ JP shouts out as we close the door behind us. ‘And a Lilt!’

  * * *

  Walking down the dim, narrow streets of Fenwild alone with Ben is even weirder than seeing him bonding with my brother on the little tattered sofa. It’s not that he’s the wrong jigsaw piece, but now for some reason I feel like the one that doesn’t fit, here or even in my own skin. I am weirdly self-conscious about how I’m walking – is it too quick? Does it seem like I’m trying to ditch him? – and the fact that there’s just a silence hanging in the crisp, autumnal air between us. Should I be saying something? Am I being rude? Why doesn’t he talk, though? I’m so jangled by his presence that I spend the whole walk to the chippie tied up in my own thoughts and before I know it, we’ve joined a short queue and are waiting to order. The radio in the kitchen cuts through my tension a little, and the smell of frying chips instantly soothes me, as it would any sane person, but I’m still stumped as to what to say.

  ‘So how are we standing on the friend-or-foe status?’ Ben asks me, keeping his eyes on the front of the queue.

  Straight to the point. Fair enough. ‘Let’s just say you are no longer on my blacklist.’ I fiddle with the loose change in my purse, on the surface counting it but really just wanting to avoid eye contact. ‘You’ve been open to humiliation and learning a skill most people associate with blue-rinse grannies, so I’m starting to think you don’t have a master plan to ruin me.’

  He laughs a big, throaty laugh and it hits me that I’ve never heard him properly laugh before – besides a quiet, polite chuckle for clients when they tell their mother-in-law jokes. It’s a robust noise and a few of the other customers turn to look at us briefly.

  ‘Well, thank Christ for that. No sniper sights trained on my back to worry about, then.’

  ‘No. If I wanted to hurt you I’d just unravel your four rows.’

  ‘Oi!’ He turns to look at me, smiling. ‘Below the belt, Blackthorn. Below the belt.’ He nudges me with his elbow.

  We shuffle forward a step as the queue moves.

  ‘Just to get something clear in my head, I offered to help you and I was thinking you’d want me to see what I could find out about new job openings, or thinking of a way to quash these stupid rumours. But you ask me to help your brother with his craft business. I’m not complaining, casting on was tricky but it’s a damn sight easier than networking with drunk buffoons in a members’ club. But how was all that,’ he mimes moving two knitting needles around with his hands, ‘helping you, rather than JP?’

  Blimey. It hadn’t even crossed my mind when Ben offered to help that I’d use it for my career.

  ‘Well, JP’s business is my business – we co-own it. I’m the sleeping partner. And recently JP’s had an approach from MCJ about a possible investment, so I’m looking into that for him.’

  Ben rubs at his chin, a hint of five o’clock shadow appearing in the twilight. ‘Right. I know their stuff. Pretty ethical, all round. Sounds promising.’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping. So I’m giving the business – the shop, the website, JP’s social media platform – as much of a boost as I can in a small timeframe to really show it to its full advantage. Hopefully get a sizeable investment that can help him grow it and really make a secure future for him.’

  Ben looks at me. ‘You’re the older one, aren’t you?’

  ‘How can you tell? Have you got a big sister?’

  ‘No, it was just me and Mum. But the protective thing, it’s written on your face. You’d fight to the death for him.’

  We move forward, closer to the counter.

  ‘Pretty much.’ Being this open and real with Ben is so out of sorts I feel like I’m drunk on just the smell of chip fat. So I try and change the subject. ‘Any ideas you have, by the way, I’d love to hear them. For boosting the business. There might be low-hanging fruit I’m missing here.’

  A wry smile spreads across Ben’s face. ‘Well, there’s the Blackthorn of old. I feel like I could be sitting opposite you in a boardroom with chat like that.’

  Now it’s my turn to elbow him. ‘Shut up! You know what I mean. And if I remember rightly, you’re pretty fond of some jargon yourself. Didn’t you once tell TechBank they could be the Netflix of banks?!’

  Ben shakes his head shamefully and looks at the floor. ‘All true, all true. But most of the time I was just clutching at straws, trying to stay in a conversation that was going 100 miles an hour. And there was me, on an old moped, trying to keep up with your Ferrari. It bugs me that you thought I was trying to undercut you in front of Devon. Really, I think I was just trying to stay with the pack. Chip in with “the bants”. Eurgh. I’m pretty much the weak one in the team.’

  I can’t stop the unattractive snort of air leaving my lips. ‘Not true!’

  He looks up to the ceiling and squints. ‘True. And you know what? It’s OK. I don’t think this is going to be me for ever.’ He waves down at his charcoal-grey suit. ‘Not this exact job, anyway.’

  ‘But then wh
at’s your plan? Where will you go?’

  ‘We don’t all have the big five-year plans like you, Delilah. Some of us are just making it up as we go along and trying not to fuck up too badly. Two cod suppers and two battered sausages, please, mate. Three Lilts too, ta.’

  I’m gawping as I take this in. ‘But what… so what do you want out of life?’ I splutter.

  Ben watches the food being assembled and takes the cream paper parcels that are handed over, a little puff of steam escaping as he takes hold. ‘Blimey. That’s a bit deep to tackle over fish and chips, don’t you think? That’s more of a Sunday-roast kind of question, with a cheese course thrown in. And besides, if you’re going to chuck that conversational grenade at me, I’m going to lob it right back, what do you want out of life?’

  I pick up the three cans of Lilt on the counter – putting two in my coat pockets and quickly opening the third. The fizz tickles my nose as I glug it down and the synthetic sweetness makes my teeth throb, but I’m desperately stalling. My life has gone from perfectly on track to permanently in a ditch in the last few weeks, and I have no idea how I am going to get it going in the right direction again. But I don’t want Ben to know that.

  * * *

  I do love a good wallop of endorphins. And with everything swirling about in my head at the moment, exercise is just what I need to bring back my laser focus, not to mention combat all the amazing comfort food that Mags keeps delivering to our door, to aid JP’s recovery. Cottage pie, Chelsea buns, bread and butter pudding: all the carby, buttery delights I’d normally eschew in London for something with endives and celeriac – but seeing as I really can’t cook and don’t have the patience for it, I’ll take a home-cooked meal any day, regardless of the fat content.