by Debbie Young
“WHAT’S THAT, A FOOD bank for moths?”
Billy prodded the wire basket of knitting yarn with the end of his walking stick. I laughed as I came to queue behind him, but Carol looked stern.
“None of your business, Billy boy, unless you want to take up knitting.”
“I could do with a new scarf.”
Seeing the threadbare one stuffed inside the collar of his tatty tweed jacket, I could see why moths had been front of mind.
Carol wagged a finger at him.
“If you want one of the scarves we’re making, you need to be homeless first.”
Billy withdrew his stick.
“That’s a steep price to pay. I could buy one second-hand in a charity shop in Slate Green for a couple of quid.”
He turned to me.
“Are you in on this lark, girlie?”
I nodded. “I got an offer I couldn’t refuse from Carol.”
I winked at her, and she grinned.
“Yes, it’s wonderful. I’ve persuaded just about every lady who’s been in these last few days to take part. Even little Ariel.”
“Ariel? What sort of a name is that for a girl?” Billy lifted his flat cap to scratch his head. “Has she got sisters at home called Daz and Omo?”
I laughed. “Not to mention her brothers Domestos and Vim. Actually, the name Ariel is Shakespearean. It’s the name of a spirit in The Tempest. I think it’s rather pretty.”
“What did that silly old bugger know about naming names? He called one of his characters Bottom.”
Surely that was the role Billy was born to play. If the Wendlebury Players ever stage A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I’ll nominate him for the part.
Billy set his white cottage loaf on the counter and pulled a battered five pound note out of his pocket.
Carol remained stern. “I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice girl. She just needs a bit of feeding up. And a bit of company to bring her out of herself. If I see her again before Wednesday, I’ll try to get her involved in our knitting group. She’ll be lonely till her friends get back from India. Coming to our meeting on Wednesday could be just what she needs to make her start to feel at home here.”
CAROL COULDN’T HAVE been more wrong. Wednesday’s meeting didn’t run as smoothly as she’d hoped.
Mrs Fortescue took charge of the meeting. Did I say meeting? It was more like a rally.
“You must all knit to the pattern provided.” She held a copy up like Exhibit A in a court of law. “No bigger, no smaller, so the scarves will be of a uniform size.”
Karen, one of my friends from the Wendlebury Writers, put up her hand.
“I always knit a bit tight, Mrs Fortescue.”
“It’s your thrifty nature, love,” came a voice from the back.
“Better than being a loose woman,” called another, causing a ripple of giggles around the room.
Mrs Fortescue was not amused.
“Then switch to a larger needle and complete a tension square before you start your scarf, to check. Go up two needle sizes if need be. Now, you have until the twenty-fifth of the month to complete your scarf and deliver it to Carol in the village shop. Late arrivals will not be tolerated. Then, on the twenty-sixth, Operation Yarnbomb begins.”
When she paused for dramatic effect, various hecklers called out.
“Yeah, what’s that about?”
“Sounds a bit violent to me.”
“You want to bomb the homeless? Poor souls are having a hard enough time already.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to yarnbomb the oak tree on the village green. Which is to say that under the cover of night, we’re going to secretly wrap all the scarves artistically about the tree to create a dramatic visual statement to raise the plight of the homeless.”
She clasped her hands across her chest in delight.
“Can you imagine the colourful spectacle, just as all the trees have lost their leaves and are looking utterly drab? It’ll stop passers-by in their tracks.”
“Make drivers crash into it, more likely,” someone called from the back of the room. Mrs Fortescue ignored her.
“It will make a splendid photo opportunity, and the local paper is sending its photographer, Clive Wren. You’re all invited to attend at eight o’clock on the morning of the twenty-sixth to be in the photograph.”
I could guess who’d be at centre stage in that shot.
“Now, let’s get to work. Those who can’t knit, please join Carol’s table. The rest of you may sit where you like.”
There was a scraping of chairs as we reorganised ourselves, and I was pleased to find Ariel beside me at Carol’s table. I hadn’t seen her arrive. She must have slipped in at the last minute.
Once we were all seated, Mrs Fortescue clapped her hands for silence.
“Now, any questions before we begin?”
To my astonishment, quiet little Ariel rose to her feet.
“Yes. I’d like to object to the inclusion of wool in these bags of yarn. I don’t mind knitting, but I won’t knit with real wool. It’s cruel to sheep.”
A middle-aged woman in a weathered waxed jacket stood up to counter Ariel’s argument.
“What do you mean, it’s cruel to sheep? You should see ours at the shearing in the spring. They can’t wait to be rid of their heavy winter fleeces. They skitter off back into the field like they’ve had a weight taken off their consciences.”
Ariel folded her arms.
“More likely relief at escaping being pinned down by the shearer. Poor things, it’s so undignified.”
I couldn’t see how a shearer might do his job without holding the sheep down in some way. You can’t reason with a sheep.
“Are you accusing my Neil of contravening animal husbandry standards? That’s slander, that is. You’ve no right.”
The woman was twice Ariel’s girth, but Ariel was undaunted.
“Keeping any sentient being in captivity flies in the face of nature. It’s plain wrong.”
She threw down her bag of yarn in defiance.
“I’m sorry, I can’t be a part of this campaign.”
All the women in the room looked at each other, anxious to see who would side with whom. Mrs Fortescue made her response clear.
“Nonsense. Think of these poor homeless souls. A scarf made of pure wool is the best thing for them: warm, water repellent, breathable. If someone invented wool today, it would he hailed as a wonder fibre. The scarves need to be of pure wool to be of maximum benefit to the homeless. No shoddy artificial fibres here, thank you very much.”
She drew her fuchsia pink lambswool cardigan more tightly about her.
“And this lady’s husband has generously donated a whole fleece’s worth of hand-spun wool to the project. We owe him thanks, not abuse. Now, any other questions before we take up our needles?”
Before anyone could say another word, Ariel, her cheeks an unhealthy mauve, scraped back her chair and stalked out of the room. I glanced across the table to Carol, who seemed as anxious as I was on Ariel’s behalf. She leaned towards me and spoke in a low voice.
“Go after her, Sophie, and make sure she’s OK. You can stop by the shop on your way home tomorrow, and I’ll give you a quick knitting lesson then.”
I stuffed my knitting things into my bag and hastened after Ariel.
5 A Dropped Stitch
BREATHLESS FROM RUNNING, I caught up with Ariel outside The Bluebird. To slow her down, I caught hold of the strap of her curious shoulder bag. It was embroidered with the word “Ahimsa”, a brand I didn’t recognise. I made a mental note to look it up online later.
When she turned round, there were tears on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Ariel. Don’t let Mrs Fortescue upset you. She means well.”
She frowned.
“How do you know my name?”
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be a newcomer to the village. I too had once been disconcerted by how quickly everyone knew my name and my busi
ness without me telling them.
“Carol told me. You know, the lady who runs the village shop.”
The shop and the pub are Wendlebury Barrow’s jungle drums.
“I’m Sophie, by the way, and I work in the bookshop. I’m quite new to the village myself. Do you fancy a drink?”
I nodded towards the pub.
“It would be lovely to get to know you. There aren’t many single girls of our age in the village. Well, not that I’m single, strictly speaking. I’ve been going out for a while with Hector Munro, who runs the bookshop, but I live on my own.”
Her tense shoulders relaxed a little, and we turned in at the door of the pub.
“Evening, Sophie, evening, Ariel,” called Donald, the publican, from behind the bar. “What can I get you?”
Ariel’s eyes widened at his familiarity. As she gazed around at the interior, getting her bearings, I realised it was the first time she’d been inside The Bluebird.
“The usual for me, please, Donald. Ariel, what do you fancy?”
“Oh, just a lime juice cordial and soda please, with ice. No, hang on. Does your lime juice cordial contain sulphites? Please may I check the label?”
Donald handed her the bottle, and she read the small print carefully. To my relief, it met with her approval.
We took our drinks over to a quiet table by the window.
“Are you teetotal?” I asked, intrigued by her abstinence in drink as well as food. No wonder she was slim as the paper straw in her glass.
She nodded.
“My father –” she began, then faltered.
She didn’t need to say any more. I understood. So her father had been an alcoholic and put her off drink. Presumably he’d predeceased her mother. Poor thing to be orphaned so young. I felt a sudden pang of longing to see my own parents, so far away in Inverness. I determined to phone them when I got home.
“So how are you settling in?”
She sipped her drink.
“Fine, thanks. It’s a bit quiet.”
“I should think so, all alone in that big cottage. Had you considered getting a lodger or a housemate for company?”
She nodded again.
“That’s taken care of, thanks. One of my friends is joining me when she comes back from India. We work together at the same firm, an animal charity that’s just moved to Cirencester. We’ve got lots of plans. We want to go self-sufficient. That’s why we chose to live here rather than in town. Plus rents are cheaper here.”
“You’ve certainly got enough garden for it. Your vegetable patch is as big as an allotment, and the orchard at the end of the plot is a bonus.”
I’d seen the garden when we’d gone back to the house after Mrs Potts’s funeral.
“I know. It’s a fruitarian’s dream, just right for me now. We’ll have apples, pears, damsons, plums and cherries in the summer. There are still a few late apples and pears to be picked even now.”
I wasn’t sure precisely what fruitarian meant – surely one couldn’t survive on fruit alone? But I didn’t want to seem ignorant. I’d have to look that up later too.
“Will you keep a few hens for eggs? Mrs Potts used to. A lot of folk do around here.”
Ariel set her drink down on the table so hard that I feared she might shatter the glass. Her eyes were glistening.
“Didn’t you hear what I said in the village hall just now? I don’t hold with keeping animals captive. I’m vegan, you know.”
I put my hand to my mouth, embarrassed at my faux pas, and unnerved that my simple question had caused her so much distress.
“Of course I did, I’m sorry. How long have you been vegan?”
She perked up a little.
“Oh, not long, just since Mum fell ill. She didn’t hold with it, of course. She’d eaten junk all her life and couldn’t understand what I was doing.” Ariel glanced at me under her eyelashes, as if assessing whether she could trust me. “She had bowel cancer, a really aggressive form. I suspect our dreadful diet didn’t do her any favours. Chips with everything, tons of processed food. We’d always eaten like that. It didn’t take long –”
She paused for a moment, staring down at her hands, locked tightly together on her lap.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, and waited for her to be ready to speak again. If she wanted to talk more about her mother, I’d listen, but I didn’t want to pry.
“I’m eating much more healthily now, and I don’t wear animal products any more either. Only sustainable and organic linen, cotton and hemp. No artificial fibres because of the pollution, of course, and no wool.”
Could wool really be cruel to sheep? All the sheep I ever see look at peace with the world. I pulled the edges of my jacket together to hide my polyester top, thinking for the first time how odd it was that a garment made of artificial fibre should be called a fleece, same as a sheep’s wool.
“Fashion is so tricky these days, isn’t it? I’ve heard people object to cotton because of how much water is needed in its production. If you listened to all the arguments, we’d all be going round naked. Or in fig leaves.”
I laughed, but she just looked thoughtful.
With terrible timing, Billy chose that moment to saunter past us on his way back from the Gents to the bar.
“Sophie Sayers, did you just say you’re going to go about naked? Wendlebury Barrow’s answer to Lady Godiva? When’s that, then? I’ll make a note in me diary.”
“Hello, Billy. This is Ariel. She’s just moved in to Mrs Potts’s.”
He gave her a nod and a wink.
“I knows.”
Ariel fixed her gaze on the table, embarrassed. For once, Billy took the hint and, unabashed, strode away to the bar to order a pint of cider.
I reached across the table to touch Ariel’s arm.
“Don’t worry, he’s not really a dirty old man.”
Billy’s hearing was better than I’d expected. He must have been wearing his hearing aids for once.
“No, I’m not. I has a bath every Sunday whether I needs one or not.”
Ariel quickly finished her drink and stood up.
“Well, thanks for the drink, Sophie. It’s nice to meet you.” Her voice was tight. “I’ll see you around.”
Before I had a chance to reply, she was out of the door.
6 Checking Tension
BILLY SAUNTERED OVER to join me, bringing his pint.
“So what’s up with your new friend, Fairy Liquid?”
Without waiting to be invited, he made himself comfortable opposite me.
I sighed. “It’s a bit awkward, actually. We went up to the Knit and Natter meeting at the village hall.”
Billy rolled his eyes at the thought.
“She made a bit of a scene about the evils of knitting with wool and stormed out.”
Billy tutted. “That attitude’s not going to win her any friends around here. The Cotswolds was built on the wool trade. All the posh houses and big farms round here, and the fancy churches, was all paid for by wool.”
“I know.” I nodded. “But she might not know that. She’s from Liverpool.”
“Huh,” said Billy. “Built on slavery. I know which trade I prefers.”
“Maybe, but that’s not Ariel’s doing.”
“Besides, I don’t know what we’d have done without wool before all these artificial fibres came along.”
He waved to one of his darts player friends who had just come in the door, beckoning for him to join us.
“’Ere, George, I was just saying to young Sophie here, I don’t know what we’d have done without wool before polyester was invented.”
George nodded. “When my grandfather was a little boy, he used to be sewn into his woollen vest and pants in the winter to keep him snug.”
I didn’t like to ask the obvious question, so tried another. “Why sew him in? Didn’t his mother trust him to keep them on otherwise?”
George considered this for a moment.
“I dunno, love, it
was just what they did in them days. Did you know my grandfather?”
As George was at least seventy, I didn’t see how I possibly could. He didn’t wait for my reply.
“A fine old fellow was my grandad. See that oak tree out on the green? His father planted it the day my father was born. Being able to see that old tree out on the green every day, I feels like they’ve never really left me. It’s the first thing I sees when I opens my shutters each morning and the last thing before I goes to bed.”
Now I understood the origin of the little posy of flowers that occasionally appeared at the base of its trunk. It must be George’s tribute to one of his forebears on a birthday or anniversary of a passing.
The door swung open again, this time admitting Hector, who strode up to the bar and ordered a pint, not noticing us until he’d been served and turned round. He raised his pint in a greeting and strolled over to join us.
“What are you doing here, sweetheart? I thought you were knitting and nattering, not cavorting with two gentlemen behind my back.”
I grinned. “What two gentlemen? I don’t see any gentlemen.”
Muttering, Billy and George got up and headed for the dartboard. I shuffled along the bench seat so that Hector could sit next to me.
“Carol’s going to teach me to knit tomorrow instead.”
“Good, so I’ve no competition for your attention this evening. I can think of a much better way to spend your evening back at home.”
He laid a hand gently on my thigh. I smiled into his soft green eyes.
“OK, boss, I think that’s the best offer I’m going to get in here tonight.”
It was a good thing I wasn’t stitched into woollen underwear for the winter.
LATE THAT NIGHT, JUST as Hector was nodding off to sleep, I had a brainwave.
“I bet you’ve got an old knitting book in your second-hand collection upstairs.”
Hector collects curious vintage books and stores them in a special room in the upper floor of his flat above the bookshop. My needles and wool were still in my bag, which I’d flung on the Ottoman at the foot of the bed.
When I snapped on my bedside light, Hector groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm. Then I threw back the duvet on my side, sprang out of bed and slipped into his dressing gown.
