The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  After another 45 minutes and so many lovely pastoral scenes that I’m starting to crave just a little graffiti for balance, we arrive. The farm sits at the end of a long, bumpy dirt track, lined with bushes and the odd rusting wheelbarrow. A woman with dark cropped hair is feeding some chickens just inside the farm gates and waves at us. Seeing as it’s the only property for a few miles, she can safely guess we’re her for her and the alpacas.

  We all unfold ourselves from the van, slyly do a quick stretch and then go to shake hands.

  ‘You must be Ruby?’ I ask.

  ‘Guilty!’ she laughs. ‘You caught me doing one of my non-office jobs, but I love these girls so much and they’re the secret to my best bakes – fresh eggs.’ She taps her nose. She looks to be in her 50s, with somewhat weather-beaten but radiant skin. ‘Right, enough blather. Let me show you to your rooms, then we’ll get on with the tour while the light’s still good. Do you Go Pro?’

  There’s a beat as we all adjust our expectations from Alpaca Farmer to Unexpected Techie.

  Ruby rolls her eyes good-naturedly. ‘I run a website and some social media myself, my dears. I do happen to know the power of video!’ she calls over her shoulder as she starts walking us towards what must originally have been a farmhouse, but now has a wooden alpaca-shaped sign hanging from the mailbox, spelling out Sunny Farm B & B.

  True to her word, Ruby has us out by the animal enclosures just 20 minutes later.

  ‘Hey,’ Ben calls from a corner fence post, one leg up on the rung of the fence so that he’s three foot taller than usual, ‘if I stand like this, I can get a little bit of 3G. I could do a Facebook Live of JP meeting the animals?’

  ‘Great idea!’ JP nods.

  ‘But a better idea,’ I yank Ben down by the back pocket of his jeans, ‘is that I film it and Beginner Ben gets in on it. Two crafty heart-throbs for the price of one!’

  Ben frowns down at me, but I think he knows better than to try and disagree.

  Ruby hands over two buckets of feed. ‘Now you’re going to want to be slow and steady. They are clever but shy, and they don’t like being startled all that much. But after 10 minutes they’ll warm right up. And they hardly ever kick these days!’

  ‘Sorry, what?’ Ben tries to ask but Ruby is shoving him into the pen.

  ‘Three, two, one, action!’ I yell, enjoying my mini Spielberg moment.

  ‘Hey, guys!’ JP beams up at me, the sun making his eyes even brighter. ‘Beginner Ben and I are on the road! We’ve come to Wales, to see the amazing people at Sunny Farm and how they make some of the UK’s best alpaca yarn. But, it’s not really the people we’ve come to see, to be accurate, it’s the amazing alpacas themselves. They’re pretty cool. So we thought we’d show you on this live stream. Hello, fella,’ he turns to a sable-grey animal a few metres away, ‘do you want to be on Facebook, yeah?’

  Either this animal is really not keen on social media or more likely, JP’s casts swinging as he walks slowly towards it gives it a weird vibe because all of a sudden—

  ‘Ugh!’

  It has spat right in JP’s face.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha! Did you GET THAT?!’ Ben laughs, only to be barged by a chestnut creature sidling up behind him, so that he stumbles into JP and they both go head first into the turned-up mud. Luckily it’s relatively dry, but not really what you want caked into your jeans on a Saturday afternoon. Because maybe not all of it was mud mud, if you get my drift.

  ‘Oh! No!’ Ruby squawks and rushes in to retrieve them. ‘They’re usually so much calmer than this, but then they hardly see any men. Maybe it’s because you’re so big and manly?’

  I can barely hit the stop button on the camera for laughing.

  * * *

  JP puts dibs on the first shower after dinner, now we’re back at the B and B. Stan has taught us well by now: I wrap his casts up in cling film and he’s good to go in soaping himself down, no assistance needed and no nightmares for me.

  We’ve done as much filming as the setting sun will allow, after which we retreated to Ruby’s small office, tucked away behind her kitchen in the B and B building, where we made some plans for a competition in the next month and planned out how both sides will push it through their social media channels. It’s been great to have a heart-to-heart with someone else also running a small business in the craft industry. Ruby just gets that it’s all about finding that passionate craft community and then giving them something worthwhile to stick around for, with so much else competing for their attention.

  ‘Most of our B and B customers are knitters or crochet fans who want to come and see the animals for themselves. And let me tell you, you couldn’t want for better guests! Never had so much as a broken teacup or a soiled pillowcase with those lovely, clean crafters.’

  ‘Speaking of which, we should get settled in!’ My stomach is rumbling and I don’t really fancy Ruby digging up any gross-out stories of guests who did indeed go bad.

  ‘Bathroom’s up on the second floor and if you leave your clothes outside your door I can,’ she flicks her eyes up and down JP’s ruined jeans and Ben’s brown cords respectively, ‘do something with them by tomorrow morning. And feel free to make yourself some dinner in the kitchen there. There’s milk and butter, plus a few other bits and pieces in the fridge. And of course my girls’ fresh eggs, have as many as you can manage!’

  ‘Thank you,’ the men chime as one. It’s not just the mud giving them a matching look: the bromance really is in full swing. I weirdly feel left out, but somehow I don’t think my black jeans would have thanked me for a mud bath.

  As JP climbs the narrow stairwell, I peer inside the fridge. ‘So… toast?’

  ‘Delilah, really.’ Ben takes my hand from the open door and twirls me away, so he stands in my place. ‘Toast. For dinner. Come on now.’ He leans his head right into the ancient old fridge. ‘Aha! Ham, peppers, cheese. If we can find an onion and start cracking those eggs, we can have a half-decent frittata on the table in 20 minutes.’

  I must look a bit sceptical, or maybe even a bit afraid, because Ben asks me, ‘Do you know how to make a frittata?’

  ‘Umm…’

  ‘Good grief. Well, it’s like an omelette but—’

  ‘That’s not going to help me, sorry.’

  He scratches the back of his head. ‘OK, so scrambled eggs then—’

  ‘Umm…’

  ‘Blackthorn! How have you survived as an adult this long?! How did you make it through uni, for God’s sake?’

  I shrug. ‘Toast.’

  Ben pushes up the sleeves of his long grey T-shirt and I’m surprised to see a very small, dark tattoo starting just by his elbow – it must go up his bicep. ‘Then here is something I can teach you for once. Eggs 101. Wash your hands.’

  Without really thinking, I do it. And then I obediently crack open six eggs into a bowl. After which I carefully scoop up the swimming bits of shell that shouldn’t be there. I add salt and pepper, mix it up with a fork, and then Ben gets me doing the chopping – ham and onions and pepper into matching thin strips. All the while he just leans on the counter beside me, watching and advising, correcting how I hold the knife a few times to ‘save your thumbs and my sanity, while you’re at it’. He’s a pretty good teacher, it has to be said. When the onions start to make my eyes sting and I feel like I just want to clamp them shut for ever, he quickly takes the knife from my hand and presses a tea towel up to my eyes. ‘Breathe in through your mouth,’ he says right into my ear, ‘that’s the trick. It’ll soon pass.’

  With the whole world black and Ben’s voice so close, for a second it feels like it’s just me and him in the whole world. I’m suddenly very aware that he’s just millimetres away from me.

  And then I hear the familiar heavy footfall of my brother making his way downstairs. I twist away from the tea towel and wipe under my eyes with the backs of my hands.

  ‘What’s all this?!’ JP yelps. ‘Who let her cook?’

  * * *

&nbs
p; Ben takes over the actual cooking of the frittata but I still stand by my knife skills – each piece of pepper is so finely sliced I think they would answer to the name Julienne from a mile away.

  JP is once again mud free and bouncing with energy. ‘I’ve just had the most amazing email. Mind-blowing!’

  ‘If it’s from a Nigerian prince I think I can save you a lot of heartache there,’ Ben chips in.

  JP doesn’t even pause to give an eye roll. ‘There’s this charity – Early Days. They work with premature babies and their families. They saw the CraftCon video go viral and they want to get involved! They can help promote the campaign, help distribute the hats to take the strain off the health visitors. And they’ve even suggested setting up a JustGiving page so that people who can’t knit can get behind us and sponsor. Like, a sponsored swim kind of thing. They can then use that money to provide families with hotel rooms near hospitals for extended stays, and buy new medical equipment. Isn’t that just… I mean, why didn’t we think of that?’ He bats me on the shoulder as if it’s personally my fault. But it is a great idea.

  ‘That is spot on. Let’s do it. Do you want me to get in touch with them? Be the point of contact?’ I suggest.

  ‘Nope. I’ve got it. Thanks.’ JP takes a seat at the scrubbed pine table. ‘So this has just got a whole load of other ideas whirling.’ He rolls his casts around in the air. ‘We’ve got to go big. Make this more of a PR spectacle. Get the hats and the cash. Be like Bob Geldof, but swear a bit less. I was watching back the live footage from today and it got the most amazing engagement – 167 shares, 540 likes and just in a few hours! So I was thinking about that, and my CraftCon moment,’ JP studiously avoids my eyes at its mention, wary of me going on another rant, I imagine, ‘and about sponsored swims and getting the cash and everything we could do for this charity. Our viral video and today’s live stream – what do they have in common?’

  ‘You looking like a tit?’ I suggest.

  ‘My rugged good looks?’ Ben attempts a smoulder over the frying pan as he takes it off the heat.

  JP just shakes his head and keeps on. ‘They were unpredictable moments of film – live events that the viewers felt part of. And they were crazy popular. So that’s it. That’s what’s going to take this to the next level and get the message heard!’

  ‘What is?’ I spin my phone round and round on the shiny tabletop.

  Ben places a plate with a steaming slice of fluffy egg heaven in front of me. ‘No phones at the table, Delilah,’ he says in a mock-posh voice.

  ‘A big event. A one-day spectacular.’ JP’s eyes go wide. ‘One that people can come and be part of, in the flesh, or watch at home as it unfolds. Like inviting everyone and their auntie to CraftCon, except that you don’t have to buy a ticket. All the mad spontaneity of Ben falling on his arse in the mud, but with less laundry.’

  ‘I’m all for that.’ Ben sits at the chair opposite and picks up his knife and fork. ‘Tuck in then, sous-chef. So JP, what would you do at this event? Where are you going to hold it?’

  Exactly what I would have asked if I hadn’t had a melting mouthful of cheese and caramelized peppers. Mmm. I pick up a forkful and offer it to my brother but he shakes his head, eager to be free to talk ten to the dozen still.

  ‘A one-day knitathon. A knit to the death. We want 165 hats, right, for one day of premature babies born? Well, let’s knit another 165 hats in one single day. People at the event and people at home, on their webcams. We’ll orchestrate it all under one roof. Our roof! The event, but also the social media hub. I’ll get my most trusty, most crafty followers to come along, the ones I know can knit like the devil, plus put out the call for new recruits. We can live-stream the whole thing – from the setting up, through to the needles doing their magic, the money rolling in, then to the after party.’

  ‘After party?’ I feel my bank balance shiver at the idea of loading bottle after bottle of cider into a shopping trolley.

  JP gives me his schoolboy smile. ‘BYOB, don’t worry, sis. I’ll make sure everyone knows. But what do you think?’

  ‘Well…’ I’m running it through in my mind. What are the drawbacks? The potential pitfalls? Could it impact negatively on the business? Would it be too much for JP himself to handle? ‘It sounds great.’ I slap him on the knee. ‘Brilliant to have a big moment to promote on social but also to get loads more bodies through the door. I’m going to have to speed up on getting that coffee machine now. But I like it!’ And I really do. It’s an idea backed by real knowledge and insight, and it totally matches JP’s brand values while still doing great works for a cause we love. I only wish I’d thought of it myself.

  ‘Seconded.’ Ben raises his glass of beer in JP’s direction. ‘Love it, mate. So when are you thinking of doing it?’

  ‘Two weeks’ time.’

  ‘Whoa.’

  ‘Yeah, but I should be cast-free by then and maybe not exactly knitting at top speed, but at least able to help someone with a dropped stitch or just make a cup of sodding tea.’ He looks down at his fixed fingers with a scowl. He really has been so patient and Zen about the broken-wrists conundrum, being a chilled-out type, but even he’s craving just to be able to brush his own teeth smoothly now. ‘Plus, I’m thinking of all the teen knitters and knitting mums we have – I want them to be able to come along while the half-term holidays are on then.’

  ‘Nothing like a scary deadline to speed things up.’ I put another huge mouthful of delicious frittata in my mouth. If this is the only dish I could attempt in a real kitchen, I think I could happily live off it for ever.

  ‘So we’re agreed? A major live event?’ JP looks between us, a twitch of doubt at his lips, pulling them down.

  ‘It’s your baby, little brother. Well, it’s your baby hats, I should say. Go for it.’

  * * *

  The next morning, JP kicks Ben and me out of the breakfast room the minute that our plates are cleared of the last baked bean. ‘I want time to talk to Ruby about how we can link up for the knitathon and have some time to plan all my ideas out, while I’m in the zone.’ Before I can offer my help with typing or taking notes, he continues, ‘I can press the home button and talk into Siri if I’m struggling, no problems, OK? You guys go and get some nice landscape shots and alpaca pics for the edit.’ He’s not really asking, so we pull on the communal wellies left by the huge oak front door, and trudge out onto the gravel path.

  There are so many layers of bright colours coming to life as the thin mist rises over the valley. Green, orange, yellow, the odd smudges of grey or brown where a stone wall interrupts the fields. And of course the odd little fluff balls that are the alpacas, like polka dots studding the land. In a place like this you could believe yourself to be in any century, or even any other dimension. You could be living in a hand-built hut, hundreds of years ago, or in a world where you have to fight orcs off your vegetable patch. It’s timeless and magical all at once. I’ve been snapping for ten minutes before I realize neither of us has said a word, we’ve just been breathing it all in. Ben has his hands in his pockets, turning slowly in a circle to take in the full vista. Occasionally he’ll wordlessly point to a lovely shot and I’ll follow his finger with the lens.

  ‘Comfortable silences, right?’ he says eventually.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing. Do you think you could be happy living in a place like this?’ It’s not mean-spirited, the question, more thoughtful. Like asking: Would you rather have three legs or two heads? ‘You’ve got everything you need – your work, your passion, a home, family, Sky TV, don’t forget the fresh eggs,’ he makes a quick bow to two chickens across the yard from us. ‘You could go into a town when you needed or wanted to, but you wouldn’t be a slave to routine. Or to anyone else, for that matter.’

  I slip the camera into my pocket. ‘It sounds good when you say it like that, but there’s always a line to toe, on some level. You might run your own business, but the bank manager calls the shots. You’re s
till a slave to him, in a way. Or her. And the animals you’ve got to feed and wash and muck out. Though otherwise, it does sound pretty great. I just worry…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, there are so many unpredictable elements to a business like this – the weather turning bad, the trends in fashion or craft for this particular kind of yarn, your animals could be struck down with… alpaca plague.’

  ‘Alpaca plague?’ I can hear the smile in his voice without even having to look at him.

  ‘You know what I mean. Too many things potentially affecting your output and therefore the money you can make.’

  Ben takes up a very Devon-like pose – all big gestures and flapping hands. ‘Be careful, Blackthorn, you’re sounding risk averse here. Where’s the blue-sky thinking? Where’s my chai latte?’

  Part of me wants to laugh. ‘My mum and dad had to fold their small business when we were little. For a while we had nothing at all. That kind of thing stays with you.’

  Ben straightens up and takes a step towards me. ‘I’m so sorry. And of course it would.’

  After a less than comfortable silence that stretches into three minutes he says quietly, ‘I guess you feel about small businesses the way I feel about credit cards. My mum had to use one when I was little, just for a handful of stuff like shoes for me, new tyres for her car. But the interest when she couldn’t pay it back… I don’t think she really cleared it till I was through uni and I vowed that my student loans were the only ones I’d ever take out. Full stop. I mean, I didn’t mind not having stuff back then, that didn’t matter, but I really did hate the debt following us around. That heavy feeling of owing something that feels so much bigger than you can ever afford.’