The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘God, I’m the same. If I earn it, I save it. That’s been me from day one on my first paper round. I suppose that’s what’s made me nervous about these places – you can do something you really love and that gives you this unique freedom. But what if there’s no money at all in the thing you love? No stability? That’s why I get so involved with JP’s business, I suppose. I want him to be secure. And that’s also why I’ve been pursuing this investment with MCJ – to give him some protection for the future.’

  Ben pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘Your brother is one of the most level-headed, grounded people I know. He’s secure. Whatever he does, he’ll be secure.’

  ‘But you don’t know what happened, when he was a lawy—’

  ‘He told me over a few beers. He’s very open about it. It’s incredibly admirable. I wish I had the guts’ He looks me directly in the eye and clears his throat. But after a blink he looks away again. ‘Your brother will be fine, investment or no investment. Whether he makes a million or just a few new mates. He knows happiness. And maybe part of that is from the childhood you guys shared. He knows to make the most of something small. Just like I did when I opened my Blackburn Rovers socks on Christmas morning, when I was 11. I knew that was all Mum could afford just then, so that meant the world. Even if it was the away strip. And I will swear that I love them in a court of law. In fact, I still wear them on match days.’ He flashes a deep smile at me and I take the olive branch to get us out of this conversation that’s pulling us into some deep, gloomy quicksand.

  ‘But when you hear about my S Club 7 pencil case, complete with dent on one side, you will die of jealousy. I was the talk of the playground.’

  Ben looks gravely serious as he stares at the floor. ‘My heart has shattered. I’ve just discovered my mum didn’t love me after all. Not if I couldn’t look at Bradley and Tina’s faces during maths.’

  I punch him on the arm.

  ‘Is there a cheesy ’90s band you don’t love? S Club 7, PJ and Duncan… Next you’ll be telling me you can do the Steps’ greatest hits in your sleep, complete with dance moves. Though their hand waving isn’t really that hard, compared to the PJ and Duncan leg and arm thingy. I mean, you certainly found it hard, that night in the pub.’

  A dizzy memory pops up of me being finally forced to get up and dance that night on the way back from Milton Keynes. On my second go round I totally lost my footing, maybe the plot, and twirled down onto the pub floor. I was a mess of tangled limbs and double gins. I blush at a hazy recollection of Ben having to grab me round the waist to lift me off the floor. Then the rest of the night goes fuzzy again.

  ‘Oh God, I’d completely blocked that out! No one filmed it, did they?! And I thought owning S Club 7 memorabilia was embarrassing enough. Blimey. You know, I never told anyone this, not even JP because I desperately didn’t want my parents to know, but what I’d been hoping for was a glitter pen art set. In fact, I don’t want anyone to know that, either.’

  Ben’s scrutinizing me and I feel self-conscious all of a sudden. He steps towards me and says quietly, ‘You know, Blackthorn—’

  ‘Guys!’ JP yells from the front steps, choosing this moment not to be secure and centred but to be loud and obnoxious and send the alpaca skittering away. ‘We need to be on the road in 20 minutes! Loads to do!’ He’s rotating his hands in a sort of hurry-up motion but with just his fingers moving it’s pretty weird.

  ‘Now there’s our true slave master,’ Ben mutters darkly as we head back to the house.

  Chapter 18

  I’m getting worryingly familiar with the layout of Costco now. I could gather a 52-pack of loo rolls, 375 teabags in a box and a whole herd of Toilet Ducks with my eyes closed. But when you’ve got a lot of people to feed on a budget, it doesn’t get better.

  ‘These cakes!’ Mags’s eyes twinkle in the baked goods department. ‘The size of them! And so cheap! Should we get one today, just to try it, do you think?’

  Her hands are already sliding around a Red Velvet that looks like it could crush in a man’s skull it’s so huge and heavy. ‘Why not? Like you say, good to test one before we have to come back and load up again ahead of the knitathon.’ Today’s shopping trip is all about preparing for the extended timetable of daytime and evening classes we’ve put on in a hurry while our stocks are high. Becky messaged me to say her blog post’s coming together, but it’s slow going seeing as she usually only has 20 minutes to herself every day and sometimes she has to use part of that for brushing her teeth.

  But she followed up with a PS: What about some kids’ classes during the day? The autumn half term is coming up and the limited offerings Fenwild has for entertaining children means parents quickly run out of ideas, cash and sanity in their efforts to entertain their little darlings. Anything to keep kids occupied is bound to be popular, if the play parks crammed full of glassy-eyed 40-somethings are anything to go by. So JP has plotted out a very basic knitting course to make a teddy’s scarf and we’re running that in the afternoons this week, with our usual course for grown-ups at a later hour. We’re going to get through a lot of cake. ‘Actually, why not get four?’

  The hulking great cakes fill the trolley like sugary sentinels, keeping watch over our shop supplies. But they also remind me that before long, I’ll hopefully be offering slices to the people from MCJ, as well as the chance to invest in Blackthorn Haberdashery. I started to feel nervous the minute I emailed over the pitch. I sneakily suggested a meeting time when I knew JP would be out with Stan, having one of his last OT sessions. It was written in biro on his naked knitting ladies calendar.

  It’s not that I feel worried about the meeting, it’s just that with the whirlwind of the knitathon keeping JP’s head in a right old spin, I don’t want to overload him with this. And if the company do come armed with a very big cheque, he’s going to need a calm moment to take it all in and process it. In truth, I’ve been so impressed with how he went from zero to a hundred miles an hour on this idea – on the drive back from Sunny Farm, he recorded a bumpy but authentic On the Road vlog to tell his subscribers what and where and when this knitathon would be, then he made a date with Patti to put together some graphics to help promote it, then he put in a call to his favourite yarn suppliers to see if they could donate any wools towards the cause, and they had a good slagging session over this mega American firm – Wow – and their horrible colour charts and textures. He’s juggling so much, and so calmly. The big sister in me can exhale a tiny bit. But the business consultant in me is also excited to see his passion and energy and his know-how: it means that investment has come at just the right time. If he gets a big wallop of cash, it could really help him expand at a time when About a (Knitting) Boy is on every cool crafter’s favourites list.

  I think I’m going to need a wedge of refined sugar at the meeting as much as anyone. It’s been a while since I was in any kind of formal meeting situation and that hardly ended well for me… The weird thing is, I’ve stopped missing it. I’ve stopped craving the adrenalin, I’ve stopped wondering how my old clients are getting on without me. I’ve started enjoying eight hours’ sleep a night, I’ve started slowing down and just chatting to Mags about her garden or scrolling through Patti’s Instagram that shows off all her paintings and sketches. I’ve started having time to just muck about – like at CraftCon and at Sunny Farm. I was always shooting from one thing to the next, back at work, always flogging myself to make someone else’s business look great or make tonnes of money. And, yes, my bank account was getting nicely padded too, but I hadn’t made any great memories or great friends. I barely had time to see old ones or even my family all that much.

  But I need to remember all my old meeting techniques to do a good job with MCJ on JP’s behalf. I want the very best deal for him. I want him to be safe in the job he loves for a very long time indeed.

  And what job would I love in the future? If it’s not my old role, what do I do? Have I forgotten who am I amongst this happy-go-lucky cr
aft world? Am I losing the plot?

  ‘Crackers!’ Mags points one finger in the air decisively. ‘I need crackers for cheese. I think they’re this way.’

  ‘Aisle 7,’ I reply without thinking.

  We head that way, the giant cakes making the trolley even more unwieldy to push.

  ‘I’m cooking dinner for Stan, you see, and I thought it might be nice to finish with a cheese course.’ She says this as she’s carefully examining a box of water biscuits the size of a plasma TV, but a little spot of pink blush appears at her cheeks.

  Well, hello, Mags. Good on you. ‘That sounds lovely. How did that come about?’

  ‘We were talking about my favourite recipe for coq au vin and he said he’d love to try it. So I invited him over. Nothing flashy, just good home cooking. He’s a very interesting man. Lots of travelling, which I haven’t done in my life.’

  ‘Yet,’ I add.

  Mags looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Well, quite.’

  This is a turn-up for the books. I’ve been planning on getting these two alone together and they’ve done it without me! What a happy coincidence. And just like I want to capitalize on JP’s flush of extra popularity through his site and the shop, I really want to help Mags make the most of this moment too. She deserves some extra love: she certainly shares hers out with the people in her life.

  ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to get my hair cut tomorrow!’

  ‘Ahuh.’ Mags loads a crate of wholemeal crackers on top of our trolley. Costco doesn’t do subtle and neither do I.

  ‘But the problem is I’ve got to be in to sign for a big stock delivery. You don’t want to take the appointment, do you, Mags? They get so sniffy with you when you cancel at the last minute.’

  She pulls at the end of her long, loose plait. ‘Why don’t I wait for the delivery instead?’

  Good point, well made. ‘Um, no. I need to… check it really thoroughly. Last time they sent the wrong dye lot. Wrong shade of… puce. Really upset some loyal customers. But you go to Benito’s. You’ll love him!’

  ‘OK, dear. I will. You’re very thoughtful.’

  A new do could give Mags an excellent pre-date boost of confidence. She’s so gorgeous, she just needs reminding of it. Out of the corner of my eye, a pop of sky blue catches my attention. There’s a small rack of pure cashmere wraps just by the fleeces and jogging bottoms. Not the usual Costco item, and although they’re slightly cheaper than you’d find in a high-end London boutique, they’re not a mega bargain. But that blue would really complement Mags’s eyes beautifully. Before she can clock the real price, I grab two and exclaim, ‘Can you believe these pashmina thingies are two for a tenner?! I’m getting them for us.’

  Mags runs a hand over the wrap I pass her. ‘Gosh, that’s soft! So clever what they can do with cheaper synthetic materials now, isn’t it? You’d think that was cashmere!’

  Here’s hoping she doesn’t bung it in the washing machine before the big date… And my bank account will just have to put up with the non-essential purchases, just this once. Well, twice.

  After a short wait in the queue, our smiley sales clerk starts running through our bulky bargains. This always takes a while, given that the boxes and bags need so much grappling to manoeuvre them, so I might as well check my messages. The employed Dee couldn’t have gone ten minutes without refreshing her inbox but these days, without realizing it, it can be hours before I remember I have the whole world connected to the device in my back pocket.

  My screen is bursting with notifications. I’ve had to sign out of the About A (Knitting) Boy social channels from my phone – I couldn’t handle all the updates of new follows and retweets and comments. It was headache forming after a while, even though it was always exciting to see. But these are all happy texts and emails and WhatsApps from the people pulling together for the knitathon.

  WhatsApp group: KNITATHON!

  Patti:

  I have an art school bud who does video installations and he can lend us his kit to capture the event from different angles. What do you think?

  Ben:

  Sounds awesome! I’ve started the JustGiving page for people to sponsor the knitters per hour, but have we settled with a name for the event? Or just knitathon?

  Dee:

  Got to keep working JP’s brand – About a Knitathon? And let’s just hope Nick Hornby doesn’t sue…

  Ben:

  Sound as a pound, Dee.

  JP:

  Brill

  Poor JP. He really can’t wait to get those casts off in two weeks. He is quite literally itching to be able to text and email and knit and butter toast smoothly again. Not to mention he is itching from the irritation of sweat and plaster of Paris mixed together.

  When I tap on to my email app, there’s just one to be read. A few months ago this fact would, conversely, have made the super-busy Delilah’s heart leap into her ears: Am I out of the loop? Am I old news?! But right now this email only makes my heart do the good kind of somersaults – it’s from MCJ.

  From: Lorraine

  To: Delilah

  Subject: Re: Blackthorn Haberdashery and About a (Knitting) Boy investment opportunity

  Dear Delilah,

  Thank you so much for the email. What can I say? We were blown away! Usually we can find a million reasons not to take things further on the first page of a business plan but with yours we were hook, line and sinker. We would love to talk to you more about this, and would especially love to visit the store itself. How’s tomorrow for you? We’ve just had a day of training postponed so my calendar is – unusually for me – wide open. Let me know if that suits.

  L

  My head swims with a feeling of triumph that I haven’t felt since my last bonus cheque, back when I was employed. That was when I was all about the money, but now I’m happy because this is all about JP and securing his future. Some things are worth so much more than money. I do a shoulder shimmy as I wait for the till to spit out our total and Mags gives me a bemused look. I can fill her in on the whole shebang back in the car, but for now I’m just savouring the satisfaction.

  They’re in! If they want to meet this soon they really are hooked. I quickly tap out an enthusiastic but mature response, even if what I’m really thinking is, Yesssssssss, you are putty in my hands. My fingers tap out the message in a rushed blur, then I open a new message to Ben: MCJ are IN! With a million thumbs-up emojis after. Before my eyes leave the screen he sends back a response: the emoji ladies dancing in a long conga line and those party blowers and balloons. He knows that feeling of landing a deal, after all – it’s like a birthday and Christmas and Easter rolled into one.

  Seeing as the knitathon is mostly coming together without any input from me beyond a few details here and there, it seems sensible for me to invest my time in this side of the business for now. This time next year, with an oomph of cash flow, JP could be doing a nationwide tour of knitting events, not just one. Think of all the exposure – and baby hats – that could bring! He’s going to blow a gasket with excitement. And speaking of which, I’d better fill him in on the whole picture tonight if the investors are coming tomorrow. They’ll want to meet the face of the business at some point, seeing as he’s the core of the branding. That’s how I’d be thinking anyway. Time to bag up this shopping and get home. I’m on a mission!

  * * *

  But mission is sadly the only word for it. As I open the side door to the flat, I’m hit by a truly foul smell. Now, I’ve lived with a next-door bedroom to a teenage brother back in the day, but even JP couldn’t create this kind of stomach-churning stench just with his body odour and fermenting cornflake milk.

  ‘Oh, gracious, what’s that?’ Mags, her arms full of loo rolls, stops short behind me.

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s not good.’ Something’s gone hideously wrong. I switch on the lights to help track down the source, but they don’t respond. The power’s gone. Oh, brilliant.

  ‘JP? JPeeeeeee!’ But with
no grunt in reply, we must be alone.

  Mags wafts her hand in front of her face in what is a futile gesture. ‘Maybe he’s with the lovely frame girl?’

  I ping a message to Patti: Is JP with you?

  She replies: Yeah. Why, you OK? X

  It’s not worth panicking my brother at this stage, not until I sort it all out. I can fill him in later. If he’s with Patti that either means they’re pretty much seeing each other every day, or he stayed at hers last night. I’m going to come back to that thought when this place doesn’t smell like a rotten fish rolled in Stinking Bishop cheese. I crawl into the dusty space under the stairs, as Mags illuminates me with my phone torch. The circuit-board switches are all flipped and when I try to right them they stubbornly flip back again. So something is tripping them out. Right. I unfold myself from the cupboard to find my auntie wringing her hands, my phone clutched between them.

  ‘I hate to do this, but Mum’s carers are finishing their shift – I have to get back in 10 minutes!’ She winces like she can feel my pain – or, rather, she can most likely still smell it.

  I dig up a confident smile. ‘Don’t worry a jot, Mags. It’s just a tripped switch. I’ll find whatever it is that’s overloaded things. Happens all the time. Not a big deal.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ I give a double thumbs-up for good measure.

  With Mags speeding off on her way home, I’m frantically unplugging all the kitchen appliances when the smell gets stronger. To unplug the crappy little fridge freezer, you have to wiggle it from its under-the-counter space next to the sink and when I manage to do that and jerk it out, the smell hits me like a parking fine. Unwanted, with lingering dread and a feeling that this is really going to cost me. So maybe a bit of a big deal, then.