The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘Overbearing? Controlling? Calculating?’

  Mags rolls her eyes. ‘He’s your brother. He loves you. He’s never going to think those things. But perhaps now is the time to stand back a bit, let him do his thing. And you can do yours.’

  I snort out through my nose like a petulant teen with only an hour of Wi-Fi time left. ‘But what is my thing, Mags? I thought it was my career, but maybe it’s not. Right now I’d happily rip up my CV to use as coasters at the knitathon, if JP would let me.’

  ‘Well, then, that tells you something, doesn’t it?’ She leans the side of her head against mine.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’re not all about your career. There’s more to you than that. You’re a devoted sister and a good friend too. There’s that Ben chap, he’s nice.’ Suddenly my neck starts to feel red hot and prickly. ‘And it’s so lovely you’ve rekindled your friendship with Becky. She’s a lovely girl. Woman. Well, you’re all still girls to me.’ She waves her hand and moves away to do more unneeded tidying. ‘Oh, must water those plants for your mum.’

  But Mags, bringing up Becky, reminds me of something – before she stormed out of the cafe, Becks said to take her blog post down. So she finished it, then. And JP must have uploaded it, typing one finger at a time, as he does these days. I slouch back to the grey PC and bring up JP’s blog, then start to read.

  WHERE IT ALL BEGAN!

  Hey guys, my name is Becks and no I’m not a boy and no I don’t really knit (well, I’m a beginner!!!) but I’m all behind the big knitathon and I wanted to tell you why.

  My gorgeous son Chester was born very early – weeks and weeks before he was supposed to enter the world. He came in a bit of a panicked rush, so much so that I still can’t remember most of it. But out he came and now he’s ours. I’m putting a picture in at the bottom of this blog. He’s gorgeous, right?! I know all parents are biased but I DO ACTUALLY have the most beautiful baby in the world. Fact.

  Right, I could go off topic here, talking about his perfect fingers or his lovely pudgy chops or the way he recognizes me and gives me a special hand wave every morning. I say morning, I mean 2 a.m., 4 a.m., 5.30 a.m.…

  But at the start of his life things didn’t feel so rosy. We didn’t know what health complications he might have, being born so early. And we couldn’t bring him home for ages while we waited for all the tests to be done. My other half and I spent a lot of time on that NICU ward, I can tell you. And even though the nurses and doctors were BRILLIANT (literally brilliant – go, NHS! You rock!), we felt so alone. So scared. This little helpless chap needed us, but we were powerless too. For so long, I couldn’t even hold him. Turns out we are among the lucky ones and he’s going to be totally fine, but every day I remember how close we came to being unlucky, and how many people are dealing with those circumstances.

  But in the midst of all these grey clouds and rainstorms, a little ray of light poked through. I was in a supermarket, on the verge of hysterical tears, and I met an old friend. She’s Delilah and she’s About a (Knitting) Boy’s sister. She doesn’t know I’m going to talk about her in this post – so hiya Dee! Surprise! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

  Dee bought me a coffee and brought me round and since then she’s been an amazing mate. And through her and JP, so many of YOU have been amazing and knitted hats not just for Chester’s little bonce but for hundreds of other premmie babies too. It’s so important that tiny babies stay warm but more than that, by making something by hand you are showing someone else how much you care. And in dark times that means so much; I can’t really find the words. You might be able to tell words aren’t really my bag – I am much more of an emoji girl!!!

  So ahead of the knitathon I want to say this – THANK YOU AND KEEP KNITTING! You are the sunshine in other people’s lives, just like Dee was in mine on that grey day. When you’re at your lowest, you need hope. And it comes through other people.

  So if you’re coming along to our big event, I’ll be the one with the goooorgeous baby and I’d love to say hello! So would Chester.

  Lots of love,

  Becks xxxx

  P.S. Sorry if this is bonkers, it’s my first ever blog xxxx

  The tears are sliding down my face and leaving dark polka dots on my joggers. I log into the blog as an admin, but before I carry out Becks’s wishes and delete the post, I copy and paste it into a word doc. It’s too beautiful to lose for ever, even if I don’t deserve such a heartfelt thank you now.

  I have to make it up to them. I have to. Even if JP keeps me out with an electrified fence and guard dogs trained to rip off all my limbs, I have to sort this out. There must be something, there must be…

  My eyes catch on the familiar pink tone of a neatly folded Financial Times on the desk, on top of the pile of post. Mags must have put it there. I could find a new job, a new avenue. I can make my own money to put back into the haberdashery, to take the knitathon nationwide this time next year. Just give me a spark of an idea, a notepad and a coffee, and I can show JP that I’m using my skills for good, not profit-making evil. I only work because I want us to be safe. But I know that there’s more to ‘safe’ than paid bills and nest eggs. There’s happiness, and a joy in what you do. Even if I don’t know what might bring me real joy professionally, JP does know so I can vicariously live through his happiness, for now.

  There must be something out there for me to put my energies into; I must be able to find the upside in this disaster. Right? Melanie Griffith did it in Working Girl – picked up a newspaper and made her own path. And since that film inspired my love of hoop earrings and power dressing, it can’t be that far from reality.

  Between slurps of sugary, but now, cold tea that shoot bolts of trembling energy into my system, I hurriedly turn the pages. Opportunities. Don’t think of your life as a pile of shit. It’s a pile of opportunities. But the columns of narrow, dense text start to lose their meaning, one after the other – sentences unravelling like a thick black woolly jumper being pulled apart, row by row. All I can see is jargon and company names and arrows pointing this way, that way, backwards. I might as well be trying to decipher one of JP’s expert-level Fair Isle patterns. In Swedish.

  But just as I’m about to give up, I see something that does seem familiar. A name.

  No, that can’t be right. He can’t have… surely not?

  Clive has been poached by Next Gen Now, my old company’s biggest rival. And his new job is incredibly senior. But, he was…

  I’m shrugging on a baggy cardi of Dad’s from the back of the office chair. Need to call Ben. Ben will know what the frig is going down with this nonsense. When the landline rings, half buried under a wilting pot plant on the windowsill, I think he must have read my mind.

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Ah, hello? This is Douglas McNaulty. May I speak to Delilah Blackthorn?’

  I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it for a second, like it’s an enchanted lamp and by picking it up I’ve awoken the genie of career magic, Douglas. The longed-for, much-anticipated Douglas. And now he’s calling me!

  ‘… Hello? Is anyone there?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, yes. I’m here. I mean, Delilah is here. I’m Delilah. You’re speaking to her. Me.’

  ‘OK. Great. Look, I know this is last minute and I’ve already moved your appointment once before, but I’ve just had someone call, stuck on a broken-down train outside Manchester. I know how keen you are to meet – all those chasing emails you sent certainly left an impact. So I wondered if you wanted to take the appointment?’

  ‘For today?!’

  ‘Well, for now, I should say. Could you get here in 45 minutes? I’m in Kingston, not all that close to the station, I’m afraid, but plenty of free parking. If you have access to a car?’

  ‘Yes! I do. And yes! I’ll take it.’

  * * *

  I’ve always been good with adrenalin: exams, sports days, public speaking; I always found the jittery burst of adrenalin would help me race towards my g
oal and get there that much faster. And I took that from school to university and then to work, too. And though adrenalin helped me quickly and effectively sweet-talk Mags into dropping her car keys into my hand two minutes after I put the phone down, it might not have been totally my best friend today.

  Because I’m sitting in traffic just outside Kingston, checking all my mirrors to see if it’s safe to cheekily pull into the next lane over, when I see a flash of myself looking back at me. The sleep-crusted eyes, the lank hair flopping over my forehead, the cereal crumbs around my mouth.

  Adrenalin sped me up and out the door so quickly in order to make Douglas’s deadline, that it trampled all over Reason and Sense who were shouting that I needed to at least take a shower and change out of my joggers first. But, nope, I’m still in my joggers. And I smell pretty bad. Oh, shit. Douglas’s advice is probably going to be: Firstly, stop living under a bridge. Secondly, buy some shampoo.

  Christ. But what can I do now? My phone map is telling me I’ll be there in ten minutes and if I detour to find a life-saving Boots and an M&S I will be slightly more presentable, but late. Why did I say I could be there? Why? Why do I always have to prove I’m an A* at everything?! Right now I’d only get top marks in smelling like a bin.

  I pull up outside number 5, Douglas’s house-slash-office. Two minutes to spare. There must be something… something.

  * * *

  ‘Delilah, do come in.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry about my attire – you caught me… just before I was about to start some marathon training.’

  Douglas takes in Mags’s grey yoga pants, which I found in her gym kit, luckily in the boot of the car. I hope he doesn’t have CCTV covering his front garden, or he’ll know exactly how awkwardly I changed into them in his bush. Not to mention getting a flash of my arse. Her tie-dye scrunchy and matching billowing top might not be to my taste, but they’re keeping the greasy hair off my face and making some sort of a semblance of an ‘outfit’. Bless the Crocs she walks in, because she also had a roll-on deodorant in there, which I’ve rolled on just about every bit of visible flesh I have. It was that or the car air freshener behind the ears.

  ‘Oh, right. Impressive. Which marathon?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Blimey. You’re making an early start.’ He raises an eyebrow.

  I rub my hands together. ‘Well, you know what they say, the early runner catches… the personal best worm!’ My chuckle is weak and hollow, bouncing off the floor tiles and tall ceiling of the porch.

  ‘Well, do come through. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Espresso, if you have it.’

  He nods. ‘Good stuff. We have a little less than an hour in this introductory session. Make yourself at home and I’ll be through with the coffees.’

  I move into the front room and take in the range of seats: a squashy sofa in brown leather; a chaise longue in grey cord, two neat armchairs in the same grey material and a big wing-backed red velvet chair. I remember reading a business book about how our choice of a chair reflects a lot about our professional selves – do you stay on the outskirts of the room, do you want to blend in? Or do you pick the biggest, boldest spot because you’re not afraid to be heard? Adrenalin tells me that this is the kind of stuff Douglas is going to make a note of. I’m going for it.

  ‘Ah.’ He stands in the doorway. ‘That is actually my chair.’

  I fiddle with the metal studs on the end of the scarlet armrest and for the first time notice the little console table next to me, with what is clearly Douglas’s phone, notebook and Mount Blanc pen. ‘Oh, ha, ha, ha! Yes, sorry. It just looked so comfy. I’ll er…’ I scuttle over to the sofa and sink down about two feet as it absorbs my weight. Not the strategic advantage I was going for, but at least a touch less mental-looking.

  He hands me my coffee which I decide to sip very slowly (adrenalin does not need its partner in crime, caffeine, to step in just yet) and then sits down into his huge chair. Maybe he has read the same book about chair power and he just wants people to feel in awe of him. Oh, shit, I’m not paying attention and he’s already talking. Seeing as this is going to be the key to my future and cost me the last of my flowing cash, I’d better tune in.

  ‘… so that’s the basics of what I do here. And now we start with some questions.’ He must see me flinch at this and read the panic in the whites of my wide eyes. ‘No preparation necessary. In fact, that’s a bonus. If you’re here seeing me, then the right answers aren’t coming naturally to you. So we need you to think differently. You need to get out of your own head. Yes?’

  He doesn’t know how right he is.

  Douglas clears his throat. ‘What I’ve come to believe, through years in this line of work and reading every business psychology book Amazon have ever stocked,’ he allows himself a little laugh, ‘is that people only ever do what’s in their best interests. It’s a throwback to our caveman days – you do what you need to do in order to survive. And by “best interests” I don’t mean that all people are selfish. Some are. But some people – most – have it in their best interests to make others happy, so what they do is for their loved ones. In caveman terms, you keep your tribe happy so they in turn keep you amongst their ranks. So being selfless is, in a weird way, a little selfish. But when we confuse what we want with what others want, that’s when things get muddied. We’re here to find what Delilah Blackthorn wants.’

  I exhale. So far, so painless. I really think this is going to do wonders for me. I really think this is where I start to look onwards and upwards.

  ‘So Delilah, why do you think you got fired?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’ve had time to read your CV, to do a little research about you. This is a 360 process, so I’ve spoken to a range of your former employers. Why do you think you were fired?’

  ‘Um… I don’t… it all happened so quickly.’

  ‘Were there warning signs?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘Your work was up to scratch? Your working relationships were healthy?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Well…’

  ‘So perhaps “no”?’

  A flare of anger spreads up through my chest and into my neck. I didn’t come here to have rumours thrown back at me. I came here to change them.

  ‘Absolutely not. I worked hard, and smart. I had a full roster of very happy clients whose businesses were in growth. My colleagues all liked me. But somehow, rumours started. Rumours that were way off base.’

  Douglas rubs his chin and writes something on his notepad. ‘So do you feel the termination was justified?’

  The anger bubbles a little bit further up my neck, getting dangerously close to barking through my mouth in a stream of language that Mags definitely wouldn’t approve of. ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘And yet you accepted it?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You didn’t think to appeal it? Go to a tribunal? From what I’ve read and heard, Delilah Blackthorn doesn’t give up without a fight. One colleague said you once worked for twelve hours straight on a big presentation, then slept for two hours in the conference room before taking a video call with Japan.’ Douglas flips back a few pages into his notebook. ‘Ben Cooper? He speaks very highly of you.’

  The hot feeling in my chest turns down a few hundred degrees but keeps glowing.

  ‘Could it be that a part of you was glad to walk away?’

  I blink and look down to study my knees. There’s a hole in Mags’s yoga pants and a patch of my hairy leg is winking at me through it. I couldn’t have appealed or gone to a tribunal, not with the waiver I signed when I joined. But it’s true I didn’t fight on any other levels. I could have doorstepped Devon, tried to talk him round and to see sense. But I didn’t do that. Did I want to walk away?

  Douglas wrinkles his nose in thought. ‘Let’s circle back to that strand. There’s something there, I think. Every report I had on you was radiant with praise. And yet things went wrong and your emp
loyer saw fit to end your contract. Something went wrong along the way and I do think it would be beneficial to work out just what it was. For your future happiness, for starters. And speaking of that, here’s a question most of my clients enjoy, to get them warmed up. Forget work for a second. Delilah, what makes you happy?’

  My mouth hangs open and I’m suddenly aware that I didn’t brush my teeth this morning, so I clamp it shut again.

  Douglas is looking at me, a subtle head tilt conveying trust and sympathy; that much I have also read in business psychology books. It’s not that I don’t trust him: I know he’s got all the right credentials and he’s certainly put in the time to get a full picture of me and what makes me tick. But I’m worried now that he’s got more of a clue about that ticking than I have; I’m listening to the clock inside me and there’s nothing. No tick, no tock. I don’t know what makes me happy. I was kind of hoping he’d tell me…

  ‘Don’t overthink it.’ Douglas has steepled his fingers and is resting his chin on them. ‘I’ll ask again and you just say the first thing that comes to mind. I know it sounds a bit woo-woo, but when it comes to job happiness, we’re looking at an all-round picture. Knowing what makes you happy in the rest of your life is an incredible insight. So, Delilah, what makes you happy?’

  I shut my eyes. I try and let the vision come to me. A sofa. Two arms in plaster. Fish-and-chip wrappers. The sound of laughter.

  ‘Home.’

  Douglas makes another quick note. ‘Good, good. So now you can put Home at the centre of everything you do, and work can surround it. Work supports your home, but it doesn’t supplant it. Does that sound about right?’

  No. It shouldn’t. Not to the old Delilah. But then Home to the old Delilah was a silent flat in Islington that she saw briefly before work and after gym sessions. Somewhere she didn’t even bother putting up a Christmas tree. Somewhere she’d never hosted a drinks night or a poker game. It was a shell. But the Home I’d been thinking of just then was Fenwild, not Islington. Home is the haberdashery, even if I’m not a dyed-in-the-wool crafter. And that’s where I’m happy.