The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  Mags nods. ‘That’ll be it! The girls didn’t actually sing it per se, but Dee and Amber mouthed it as they did their dance routine. Which was a good job too, it was so energetic. I think her mum still has the VHS somewhere. Oh, I remember – their arms whirled about…’

  I can’t hear the rest of Mags’s reminiscing as I’ve got my head on the pub table and my hands blocking my ears. ‘Noooooo. Nooooooo. Burn that tape!’

  I’ll just stay here till they stop. And till the room feels solid again, less wibbly. Gah, I haven’t been fully drunk in so long. In years, now I think about it. I limit myself to two wines at work dos, to be sensible. But nothing about that fifth G & T was sensible. But instead of feeling things get quieter and the world becoming still, there’s a blast of noise.

  When I dare to lift my head off the sticky wood veneer, my eyes can’t really register the blur of activity in front of me. Can gin impair your optic nerves? Can it cause mini strokes?

  Patti has undone one of the straps of her dungarees and is flushed with exertion, standing near the dartboard. Ben’s cheeks are just as rosy as he wheezes out a breath. ‘We nearly had it,’ he says, looking at Patti. ‘My arms went a bit wrong. One more go? Ready?’

  ‘Hang on!’ Stan chips in merrily. ‘I’ve found it on that there iTunes. Downloading now. Aha. Here you go.’

  JP lets out a big whoop and Patti and Ben leap into action as the tinny music comes through Stan’s phone speakers.

  Oh my God.

  Ben’s arms fling out in time to Patti’s, as their legs kick out in unison though not entirely in corresponding angles, making them drunken little human Catherine wheels. They execute the PJ and Duncan dance move pretty niftily, all things considered, turning on the spot and moving straight into an arm roll. Before I realize it my feet are hopping about under the table and I’m mouthing the lyrics.

  Patti staggers forward and I catch her just in time. ‘Surely you are too young and cool to know that!’

  She laughs. ‘Did a “Lost in the Nineties” party at uni, sorry. I’m not that young – 24 isn’t that far off… what are you, 30? Anyway, those lyrics are timeless! Any lyric that rhymes “stores” and “pores” is good by me.’ She attempts a body roll as she sings but it looks a bit more like she’s got an itch she can’t scratch. ‘But you’re the master, I hear. Come on!’

  She’s pulling hard but I’ve got my trainers fully dug into the swirly carpet.

  ‘Literally over my dead body. Literally. You’d have to attach string to the limbs of my corpse and even then I’m sure the rigor thingy would stop you. Nope!’

  I fold my arms over my front. That’s the end of that.

  But Mags is lifting her eyebrows hopefully, and Ben has a lopsided smile as he shakes his head slowly. No, though. No, no. No. There’s no way.

  Chapter 16

  When JP advised me that CraftCon can take a three-day sofa-fest to recover from, I hadn’t really factored in that we couldn’t both do that and still run a functioning shop on Sunday morning. We are almost the only shop in Fenwild open on a Sunday (bar the trusty corner shop) but any extra revenue is worth it in my eyes. Who’ll man the till when we’re both complete wrecks? My gin hangover has me feeling sicker than a parrot on the stormy seas with a case of appendicitis and IBS. Despite slapping on the last remaining bit of my MAC concealer, there’s a definite green tinge to my skin in JP’s tiny bathroom mirror. My muscles ache like I’ve been through some hellish half-marathon but I’ve got none of the feel-good benefits, cancelled out by all the booze toxins still sloshing about in my system. I think you could flambé me. I just hope I can work out change correctly like this.

  I carry my third cup of tea of the day, so far, through from the kitchen to the shop, grabbing the keys en route to open up. It’s 10.30. I bet I won’t see a soul till 12.30, it being a sunny September Sunday – even the most ardent knitters must have a park to doze in or a riverbank to picnic on, to soak up what is probably the last bit of good weather of the year. I’ll have time to get some focus back in my vision and sweat out a bit more gin, and if I’m really struggling by two p.m, I can drag JP in. That’s a lie-in of love, right there. He doesn’t deserve a sister as good as me. I might even cheekily whack Netflix on the iPad just out of sight behind the sales desk; have me a little Good Wife fix.

  I’m in a bit of a courtroom daydream as I undo the bottom lock, imagining myself making witty remarks on top of killer legal moves as Devon is in the witness box and I see him crumble like yesterday’s shortbread. Take him away, officer! I find you in contempt! You’ve ruined a perfectly brilliant career! And you smell of too much fancy aftershave!

  But my enjoyable mind-rant disappears as I lock eyes with four teenage girls, waving through the shop window. Huh? Maybe they’re lost?

  ‘Morning… can I help you?’ The fresh air is like a very welcome cold flannel on my face.

  ‘This is About a (Knitting) Boy’s place, right? His shop? We saw the video last night, sooooo funny and we’ve always said we want to check this place out. So, can we come in?’ A chirpy redhead stands at the front of the group, peering over my shoulder at the craft cave beyond. It takes my knackered brain a few seconds to realize I am actually blocking perfectly good customers from entering the shop.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Of course, come in. Are you guys knitters?’

  The redhead starts talking at full speed and I catch words and phrases like ‘Intermediate’ and ‘Sock Phobia’ and ‘Snood’, and it really still feels way too early. So I decide to point them towards the yarns and hope they’ll suit themselves.

  ‘All our yarns are over there. The ones JP mentioned during his… moment are right at the end. Perfect if you want to knit a hat for our community project.’

  ‘We’ve done four.’ A tall girl with a full-on afro giving her another five inches of height nods coolly.

  ‘Amazing! Thanks a million. Another four for our total. Did you bring them with you?’

  ‘Not four in total, four each. For starters, anyway.’ The tall girl digs a paper bag out of her rose-gold satchel and passes it over.

  I hold the bag tightly to my chest, until it starts to make a crinkly noise. People are amazing. Oh God, here come the gin emotions…

  The chatty redhead scratches idly at her curls and dips her head towards me. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she catches the eyes of her friends and smiles, ‘Beginner Ben is here, is he?’

  ‘No!’ I say, maybe a little too loudly, the memory of last night’s nostalgic brand of shame shivering down from my head and along my spine. I did not want Ben to know that I once cross-dressed as Ant McPartlin. I did not need the barman or the cleaning lady or the manager who eventually got us to leave to know that about me. If only you could choose the brain cells that you wanted binge drinking to kill. I would choose to forget telling Ben he had ‘awesome moves’ when we dropped him at the station for the last train back to London. Oh God, I think I winked as I said it. What came over me?!

  Though maybe I wouldn’t want to wipe it all out. JP actually asked out Patti, for starters – and she said yes! I don’t think he thought we could hear as the engine idled outside the frame shop. Every random part of the evening was fun. The kind of pure, silly, thoughtless fun I haven’t had since… since maybe my university days. Since that time my housemate dared me I wouldn’t sign up for the Cocktail Society, mainly because it went by the name Cock Soc. I did join, and it was so inescapably joyful to throw house parties and mix neon cocktails and pontificate about the best bourbons for an Old-Fashioned that I became the vice president the next year and sat with a beaming smile in the Fresher’s Fair as a second year, yelling, ‘Cock Soc! Come and be a Cock Soc-er!’ It was a laugh, it was a bit stupid; it was the kind of thing now that I’d advise a student not to do or put on their CV, because it looks a bit ridiculous. But sometimes ridiculous has its place. And drinking and chatting and nodding along to the jukebox last night felt like more of a tonic than a bucket of the G & T kind – it left me fee
ling lighter, somehow, like someone had just taken a huge suitcase out of my hands and stowed it away safely out of sight. I wasn’t in charge, I wasn’t steering, I was just part of the flow. I might be starting to sound like Piglet playing a game of Pooh Sticks, but it was pretty jolly just to let the flow lead the way. I need that in my life. I didn’t realize this until all my tasks and actions and sense of purpose were whipped out from under me, but now I know: I should be having more fun.

  So today I’m going to let my hangover be the current that carries me – towards bacon sandwiches or digestive biscuits or even a cheesy telly marathon, if it comes to that. These girls seem clued up enough to buy what they need without getting a sales job from me.

  ‘Um, sorry. Beginner Ben is not here today. But watch out for the next vlog, I’m sure he’ll make an appearance!’ He’s going to have to, now I’ve promised it. After all, he said he wasn’t sticking around just for the favour anymore – he’s enjoying himself. ‘I’m just going to be out the back. Shout if you need me!’

  I’m having a nice little sit in the kitchen, safely out of sight, wondering if I can commando-crawl into the living room to grab my magazine without attracting attention, when the shop doorbell jangles.

  Ah, they’ve gone. The old Dee is gutted to lose revenue for the balance sheet and the MCJ stats, but the new Dee of booze and fun is secretly relieved. It’ll be nice and quiet now.

  Instead the noise level grows – there’s more chat than before. And then the bell goes again. I stomp out to the stool by the till. The shop is… almost full!

  There are more teens now, gabbing away, but also a woman with a very cool asymmetrical fringe who’s perusing the fancy hand-carved buttons. When she spots me, she smiles and says with a soft Scottish burr, ‘I don’t suppose you do coffee, do you?’ The way she draws out the ‘oo’ of ‘you’ is so hypnotizing I really wish I could say yes.

  ‘No, sorry. But that’s not a bad idea.’ I whip out my phone and add it to my To Do list, rousing the practical part of my brain again. I’m sure Cheeky’s would forgive me in time. I could kick myself for not thinking of it first – hot drinks are not just a great mark-up but a brilliant way to get customers to hang around for longer, stare at the merchandise that bit more, let the caffeine give them the last boost they need to make a big self-purchase. We probably don’t have the space but it’s something to consider, anyway. And God, I’d kill for a macchiato and an almond croissant now. Maybe with these eye bags today I could trick one of the teens into believing I’m a poor elderly lady who needs a youth to fetch her treats. The calcium is for weak bones, of course.

  I plonk myself down on the stool as the first group of teens bounce over with their chosen skeins. Their energy makes me want to wince. It hurts my head just to watch in motion.

  ‘We’ll come back again,’ says the redhead, obviously the self-appointed spokesperson of the gaggle. ‘With more hats! You know, it would be cool if the Boy could list his working hours in the shop. And when Beginner Ben is coming. Just in case anyone is interested…’ She digs a friend in the ribs and the little mite goes flamingo pink.

  ‘Another good idea, thank you.’ I ring up her balls of lime-green wool. Just get through these sales, my inner cheerleader manages limply, then you can collapse in front of the TV with a hot-water bottle and a stack of toast that reaches the ceiling.

  Except I never get the sofa or the toast. More customers come – lots of trendy knitters in their teens but also cool thirty-somethings, mums with toddlers or would-be mums with bumps, grans and even Marcus, our local poster boy for lunges and lambswool.

  He leans on the counter as I put his purchases through. ‘Man, it kicked off on Twitter for this place last night, right?’

  With all the exhaustion and A-road trekking and necking of drinks I actually didn’t login to see what the social media impact was. ‘It did?’

  ‘Well, put it this way, if stripping off on camera gets you a thousand retweets, I might just think about doing the same for my personal training services.’ The little old lady in the queue behind him starts to fan herself frantically with her ribbed vest pattern.

  I’m too shocked and still too hazy to know what to say, I just shove his change into his hands.

  ‘Not that you need a trainer, clearly.’ His eyes flick from my stomach to my arms. Eww. Something in my stomach shifts. It’s either the booze or his totally inappropriate comment. Or both.

  ‘Uh… OK.’

  ‘You know,’ he leans forward on the counter, ‘if you ever want to train together, really put each other through our paces, I’m on Tinder.’

  ‘I bet you are. But I’m not. And I’m good for training buddies, thanks, and I’m pretty busy with the shop so… No.’ I’m shaking my head very definitely. It’s worth the jangling feeling in my skull, in order to communicate how very not into this I am.

  Marcus frowns. Maybe this is the first time someone hasn’t fallen at his handsome feet? Whatever. I have a social media moment to capitalize on. I lunge for my iPad. ‘JPeeeeeeeeee!’ I shout, even though it’s only 1.15 p.m. and it’s not great shop etiquette.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologize to the startled OAP in the queue.

  After ten minutes of grunting and bashing about upstairs, JP stumbles into the shop, still in yesterday’s clothes and definitely carrying an air of yesterday’s beer with him. Luckily Marcus took the hints that I so subtly gave and has gone. ‘What? Oh God, who are all these people?’ He takes a few steps back and hides in the kitchen.

  ‘Apparently we’re blowing up. Look!’ I shove the iPad at him. ‘Look at all those retweets. And your YouTube subscribers have gone up by 400 overnight. Christ on a bike, this is brilliant!’

  Smiling still feels dangerous in my toxic state, as though moving so many facial muscles might break something important in my head, but I don’t care. This is just what the business needs – a huge surge of popularity and tonnes of buzz, driving people to JP’s website and lots of lovely purchases. This is going to make for some excellent stats for my MCJ presentation! I’m going to add ‘social media burlesque’ to my knowledge bank of business expansion tools. Maybe JP could do seminars on it…

  The shop door opens slowly and Becks steps in backwards, pulling Chester’s pram behind her. Before I can heft myself off my stool to go and help, one of our shoppers beats me to it. Crafters really are a polite bunch. Becky leaves the pram parked over by the rainbow of zips and waves at me. Her faces goes from a grin to a grimace and then quickly back to a plastered-on grin again: the expression of a true friend who is clocking how very awful you look, but then is adamant not to let you know.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ she cranes her head round the door to the living room as she spots one of JP’s casts in the kitchen. ‘So, how was it? You look like… you worked hard.’

  Ideas are whirring ten to the dozen in my head, shaking off the gin straightjacket that had me feeling so sludgy all morning. My stomach gurgles, not wanting to get left behind.

  ‘Actually, Becks, do you fancy a walk and a coffee? I’m starving. And, JP, it’s your turn on the till. Don’t give me that look. I know the casts slow you down, but you can still hit a button or two. Your audience awaits!’

  As they spot JP from across the shop, two clusters of teens start advancing on the cash desk. Definitely time to make my getaway.

  * * *

  With each of us clasping a perfectly greasy and salty sausage roll, Becky and I start walking around the park. The fresh air is doing great things for my hangover as I take deep lungfuls in-between bites of my porky heaven, and I think it must be hitting the spot for Becks too as she closes her eyes a few times and inhales slowly.

  ‘I might not have eight hours’ of sleep behind me,’ she says softly, ‘but in moments like this, looking at this beautiful park…’ she waves her sausage roll towards the oak trees that line the playing field, sending pastry flakes scattering over the pram’s hood. ‘And being here with Chester, fit and well, and with a good mate to
talk to, life is something pretty awesome.’ She nods and bites into her steaming snack.

  I bump my roll against hers. ‘Amen.’ I take in another big breath. Islington might have great sushi at three a.m. and somewhere to buy a handmade cashmere throw and matching dog coat, but it doesn’t have air like this. Or friends like Becks.

  ‘So how are you? How’s this guy treating you?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Nope. No. We’re not doing baby chat. I talk about this kid non-stop. I mean, because I love him and he’d totally be my Mastermind subject. But I do all that with Mum and the baby group ladies and all the health visitors. With you, I want Real World chat, please. Tell me about the convention thing, and how the site transformation is going. And Ben.’

  ‘What about Ben?’

  ‘Um,’ she bites her bottom lip, ‘well, just that he’s gone from being big old enemy number one to “Oh, Ben has been helping us with a vlog” and “Ben had a great idea the other day”. And he came with you to CraftCon, so…’

  ‘Only because he owes me a favour. He got all my clients when I was booted, so I’m making the most of his guilt for my own ends.’

  Her eyes go wide and her mouth falls open.

  ‘Business ends!’ I add quickly.

  ‘Hmm. To be continued,’ she mutters, as she navigates the big chunky wheels over some tree roots. ‘Can you just slow down, Blackthorn? You’re charging round like this is some kind of 100-metre dash. First rule of maternity leave, don’t walk fast. You’ll only get extra knackered and the aim of the game here is to fill up a very long, boring day. Chill. We are not at Buggy Fit now, you keen-o.’

  My brow gets sweaty as I remember my weird conversation with Marcus back at the shop. ‘Speaking of which, the instructor came to the shop again. I think he’s a right perv – he asked me out!’

  ‘Um, why does that make him a perv? You’re not 14 or related to him.’

  ‘Well, hitting on your clients is tacky. Bet he does it to all the ladies there.’