The Natter of Knitters

by Debbie Young

  As in the shop downstairs, Hector’s second-hand books are arranged in logical order, so I quickly found a 1940s book about knitting, printed during the war-time austerity years. He has a special fondness for books produced during rationing, their content condensed on to as little paper as possible. I’m surprised there’s not a similar trend these days, with the drive to save the earth’s resources.

  I flipped the book open at the index. I was unlikely ever to knit balaclavas, mittens and socks for the troops, but it included at the front useful instructions for casting on and off and for working basic stitches.

  “Every girl knitted in my mother’s generation,” Carol had told me. “It was a question of having to. Clothes were too expensive to buy, so they made their own.”

  Although Auntie May hadn’t been a knitter, her sister (my grandma) had been. My dad had told me how he used to enjoy accompanying her to the local wool shop when he was a little boy. He was fascinated by the many glass-fronted drawers of knitting wool, each bearing a customer’s name, and filled with enough balls of yarn for their current project. His mother would go in and buy a ball or two each week, thus purchasing a sweater by instalments. It put into perspective how affluent we are today and how readily most of us can buy manufactured garments whenever we want them.

  Hugging the book to my chest, I took it back to bed and began to read.

  JUST AFTER 2AM, I WOKE up wondering what was sticking in my back and turned to accuse Hector. Then I remembered. Fumbling under the bedclothes, I pulled out my knitting needles, bearing the evidence of my newly self-taught skill: a slightly wonky cast-on edge and several rows of what I now knew to call garter-stitch. I stuck the ends of the needles in the ball of wool and placed it on the bedside table.

  Hector slept on oblivious, but I lay awake for a while, knitting neat stitches in my head and glowing with satisfaction at my accomplishment.

  7 Continue as for First Row

  ON WAKING, HECTOR WAS almost as impressed as I was at how quickly I’d got the hang of knitting. As the days went by, he was less impressed at how quickly it became an addiction. I knitted at home while watching television, took it to his flat for our cosy evenings by his fire, and even found myself squeezing it into quiet moments in the bookshop.

  “It’s got to be doing me good,” I explained as I changed from cornflower blue to forget-me-not. “Such a slow, repetitive, measured activity can only be relaxing. You can’t rush knitting. It’s like taking a trip on a canal boat. It’s quite meditative. And as I’m doing this for such a good cause, I feel I can spend as much time as I like on it with a clear conscience.”

  Made of polished bamboo (the material Mrs Fortescue prefers), my latest pair of knitting needles was much thicker than the crimson steel needles Carol had given me. As to the yarn, I’d picked a huge ball of silk-mix chunky to make my knitting grow faster. I kept these materials in reserve at Hector’s flat for when I forgot to bring my blue knitting with me. I felt restless without it these days, like a newly abstemious smoker missing the physical presence of a cigarette in their hand.

  “These new needles and yarn feel gorgeous,” I explained to Hector as he poured us each an after-dinner brandy by the fire. “Every stitch feels like a caress.”

  “Not to me it doesn’t,” he grumbled, picking up his book from the coffee table.

  A COUPLE OF DAYS BEFORE Mrs Fortescue’s deadline, I reached the last couple of metres of my fourth ball of scarf wool as I cast off. The four quarters of the scarf I’d knitted, in their subtly different shades of floral blue, looked so stunning that the slightly crooked edges didn’t seem to matter. Even Hector admired the finished effect.

  “Actually, I think you’ve done very well. I wasn’t sure you’d persevere.”

  I batted him on the chest.

  “I have tremendous staying power.”

  More accurately, I didn’t dare risk incurring Mrs Fortescue’s wrath by missing her deadline.

  “And I haven’t just knitted it mindlessly, like some sort of knitting machine. All the while I’ve been thinking about where it’s going and who will end up wearing it.”

  Articulating that thought made me feel quite emotional – and undeservedly privileged, curled up in front of a roaring fire with a pleasantly full stomach, a glass of good brandy and a kind, wise and handsome man who I loved very much. A tear trickled down my cheek as I continued. I don’t think it was down to the brandy.

  “Every stitch was made with love and hope. Whoever ends up wearing my scarf, I hope by next winter they’ll have somewhere to call home.”

  Hector’s face softened.

  “You’ve made me feel bad for not being more supportive along the way. But now I think it’s time to celebrate. Come here, you.”

  And with that he took the scarf and the knitting needles from my hands and laid them on the coffee table. That was the last I thought about knitting until morning.

  8 Grafting Stitches

  SOMETIMES I WORRY THAT we’re getting middle-aged before our time, Hector and I. The night before the yarnbombing event, Hector was sitting in one of his green leather fireside armchairs engrossed in a novel, while I knitted contentedly in the other, legs stretched out before the glowing wood burner. My vintage knitting book was balanced on the arm of my chair.

  I’d just cast off the final stitch of my second scarf and was holding up the finished garment for him to admire, having dutifully handed in the first one at the village shop today to meet Mrs Fortescue’s deadline. This latest one was for Billy, in the mottled oatmeal yarn that I’d chosen so as not to show the dirt.

  “Well done. Does that mean I can tear you away from your knitting now?”

  Before I could reply, we were both distracted by the streetlights going out, indicating it was eleven o’clock. This recent innovation by the local council was purportedly for environmental reasons, but Hector reckoned it was for economy.

  “Actually, no, not yet.”

  I got up to fetch my coat from the rack by the top of the stairs. Hector’s face fell.

  “I thought you were staying here tonight?”

  “I am, but there’s something I have to do first. I can let you into the secret now, as it’ll all be out in the open tomorrow. Come with me and I’ll show you. It’s that yarnbombing business. Mrs Fortescue is decorating the conker tree on the green tonight with all the finished scarves. The streetlights going out is the cue for her to start, under the cover of darkness. You can have a sneak preview tonight.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “How’s she going to do that? It’s a big tree. I didn’t have Mrs Fortescue down as a tree-climber.”

  Picking up a Hector’s House promotional bookmark from the coffee table, he marked his place in his book and set it down on the arm of his chair before putting on his waxed jacket.

  “I’m not sure. Let’s see if she needs a hand.”

  We went downstairs and out on to the high street. Our eyes soon adjusted to the darkness, the high street illuminated only by the moon and stars, and by dim room lights behind the curtained windows of those not yet in bed. Occasionally a passing cat or hedgehog triggered a porch security lamp. The lights in The Bluebird flicked off as we passed. No lock-ins tonight.

  As we passed the village shop, we could see a few furtive figures on the green, huge swathes of knitted scarves in their arms, with more piled on the park bench by the war memorial. As we got closer, it became clear that the largest figure, directing movements in a posh stage whisper, was Mrs Fortescue. The slightest, shortest figure, shinning up the tree trunk, was none other than Tommy, who has no sense of danger and a track record of scaling village landmarks. Last Christmas I spotted him peering down on to our nativity play rehearsal through the skylight, having unaccountably climbed on to the village hall roof.

  Mrs Fortescue turned to greet us, immediately taking advantage of our presence.

  “Sophie, please help the others collect scarves from the bench and pass them up to Thomas. Hector, kindly tak
e this mallet and hammer this signpost into the grass at the roadside without making any noise.”

  Hector hesitated at this impossible challenge, but by taking careful aim, he managed to pound the signpost into the soft ground with a single blow. I detoured between bench and tree to read what it said:

  “8am photo call. Please join us to celebrate Wendlebury Barrow’s first ever charity yarnbombing. In aid of the Slate Green Hostel.”

  It may have been an early start for the press photographer, but it would allow villagers of all ages to join the fun – commuters before they set off for work, schoolchildren before the school run and anyone who’d be leaving the village later in the day for shopping trips or medical appointments. You had to hand it to Mrs Fortescue: she was a very good organiser.

  Along with three other ladies from Knit and Natter, I took an armful of scarves to the foot of the tree and passed them one by one to Tommy to wrap around the branches. It looked as if he was either gift-wrapping the tree or mummifying it, which triggered a thought.

  “Does your mum know you’re out this late, Tommy?”

  He shrugged.

  “I doubt it. She was asleep when I left, so I thought it better not to wake her.”

  When the end of a scarf slipped, he edged along the branch to retrieve it. He wrapped it back round the branch, but it slipped again. Swearing under his breath, he pulled a small hammer out of the back pocket of his jeans. Grabbing a branch with one hand and putting the handle of the hammer in his mouth to free the other hand, he reached into his front pocket to pull out a short metal tack. Then, with legs wrapped round the tree trunk like a monkey, he let go with both hands and nailed the rebellious strip of knitting into place. Somehow he managed to make more noise with the slender hammer and tiny tack than Hector had done with the wooden mallet and signpost.

  Mrs Fortescue narrowed her eyes at Tommy’s efforts.

  “Perhaps it would have made more sense to sew the ends together to keep them in place.”

  Tommy stuffed the hammer back in his pocket.

  “I’m not going to start sewing, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have enough of that at school.”

  I didn’t envy Tommy’s textiles technology teacher.

  We continued in this way for ten minutes or so until all the scarves were used up. Once the final scarf was in place, rather than disturb his handiwork by climbing down the trunk, Tommy dropped from an upper branch like a lemur.

  He sidled over to me as his closest ally.

  “Between you and me, miss, this isn’t at all what I was expecting. Mrs Forty-two told me we were going to be setting off a bomb, not hanging up a load of washing. I don’t even do that at home. I’ve been dragged here under false pretences.”

  “This is what yarnbombing is, Tommy. Covering something with yarn as a surprise. There’ll be no explosives. Surely you didn’t think Mrs Fortescue was planning a terrorist attack?”

  “No, she’s too posh for that. I just thought it would be like some type of joke bomb for a laugh. I bet when all those people turn up in the morning expecting something spectacular, it’ll be a bit of a wet octopus.”

  I laughed. “I think you mean damp squid – er, squib. Besides, it’s all in a good cause. These scarves will be sent to the homeless, once we take them down again.”

  He shrugged. “Then they should be going to the homeless to keep them warm tonight rather than being wrapped round a tree. Why do you need to keep a tree warm anyway? It’s not as if it knows. Who cares about a stupid old tree?”

  When Mrs Fortescue came over to slip a five-pound note into Tommy’s hand, she was immediately forgiven.

  “Wow, thanks, Mrs Forty-two! Anytime you want any other odd jobs done, just let me know.”

  We all stood back at the edge of the green to admire the finished effect. Although in the dark of night the colours were diluted to so many shades of grey, I still managed to spot my scarf, half way up the trunk. I looked forward to seeing the finished display in the morning light when it would be in glorious technicolour.

  But Tommy had got me thinking. What would the homeless people think if they knew we’d given priority to keeping a tree warm? Still, the event would benefit them in the long run: the photo in the local paper would raise awareness of the charity that was helping them, and the scarves would be taken down and delivered to the hostel after a couple of days.

  Mrs Fortescue stepped in front of the tree to address us in her stage whisper.

  “I hope I’ll see you all here tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp for the photoshoot?”

  We agreed, of course.

  “Best get off home and into bed now, so you are up bright and early and looking your best for Clive Wren.”

  Tommy picked up his bicycle, which he’d leaned against the bench, climbed aboard and pedalled swiftly down the middle of the high street. He had neither lamps nor helmet. Mrs Fortescue shook her head in disapproval before heading off on foot in the opposite direction. The other ladies strolled away to their own homes.

  Left alone in the moonlight, Hector and I stood gazing for a few moments longer at the wool-dappled tree, cocooned in the silence of the night. I looked up at the stars twinkling down through the branches. For those sleeping on the streets, would the wonders of the night sky bring any comfort? Perhaps they preferred the sky shrouded in cloud, as it made for warmer nights.

  Just as I was starting to count my blessings, my reverie was broken by a sharp bang at an upstairs window in a cottage to the left of the green. For a moment I mistook it for a gunshot and felt a burst of reactive adrenaline before realising it was just the sound of a wooden window shutter being closed.

  Hector slipped his arm across my shoulders and steered me round to start walking back to his place.

  “Come on, then, I’d better obey that scary woman and get you to bed without delay.”

  I grinned. “Go on, then, if you must.”

  When it comes to blessings, Hector is top of my list.

  9 Keeping the Pattern Straight

  HECTOR, EVER A STICKLER for punctuality, set his alarm early so we could be at the village green well before the appointed hour of eight o’clock. Consequently we had a prime spot to view the action.

  “I just wish there was some way we could tie this in with the bookshop,” he said as he marched us up the high street, practically dragging me by the hand. “As there’s no bookshop in Slate Green, any local paper coverage lures Slaters up the hill to ours.”

  “We should have got some Hector’s House branded t-shirts made, showing the name, the website, and a picture of a shelf full of books. Or some smart calico bags, like the Books Are My Bag ones, that we could be casually holding in any pictures. Product placement, you know? As one of the knitters, I’ll definitely be in the photo. What a missed opportunity!”

  I considered the practicalities for a moment.

  “They’d be too expensive to give away, but we could sell them, or give one free in return for so many stamps on a loyalty card. Why haven’t we got loyalty cards?”

  Hector squeezed my hand. “Yes, we should get loyalty cards. And bags. Why have I never thought of that?”

  “I’ll look into it when we get back to the shop. While you’re at your meeting with the St Bride’s School librarian, I’ll nab your laptop.”

  I was glad to have the opportunity to get online during the day for a change. It was about time I broke my bad habit of lobbing queries across the shop to Hector at the trade counter, where the laptop lived. The previous day, while Hector was at the dentist, I’d spent an interesting few minutes Googling Ariel’s fruitarianism, discovering its origins in the religion Jainism (I’d also had to look that up), the key principle of which is to do no harm, not only to plants and animals, but to oneself. Apparently some Jain monks strain water before they drink it and sweep the road in front of them as they walk, so as not to inadvertently kill any tiny life forms. I can’t help but admire their commitment. And there was I thinking Ariel wa
s just being finicky.

  When we arrived at the green, a dozen or so people had beaten us to it, including Carol. In the daylight, the tree was a kaleidoscope of colour. The dewy grass, sparkling like a well-cut emerald, made the perfect backdrop.

  “There’s my scarf.” Proudly I pointed to a spot half way up the trunk swathed in floral blues, just one of dozens of scarves now wrapped around the tree. “Wouldn’t the world be a brighter place if trees actually grew with multicoloured trunks and branches?”

  Hector wrinkled his nose.

  “I think nature knows best, Sophie.”

  Old Joshua, my next-door neighbour, came across to greet me, leaning on his walking stick. He didn’t often leave his house and garden these days, so I was pleased to see him out and about. This event was a relatively effortless way for him to catch up with village friends.

  “You were up and out at work early this morning, Sophie.”

  There was a twinkle in his eye. He knows perfectly well that I often stay at Hector’s, but I never like to admit it to him, out of respect for his generation’s sensibilities.

  “Well, I didn’t want to miss the excitement,” I said hastily.

  Hector winked at Joshua. “Or else she’d have Mrs Fortescue to answer to.”

  Joshua groaned. “Yes, she is what you might call a determined lady.”

  Mrs Fortescue occasionally turns up on Joshua’s doorstep bearing a home-made egg custard or a nourishing stew. It’s kind and thoughtful of her to take so much trouble, but Joshua finds it a little embarrassing.

  Soon plenty of children had clustered around us, oohing and aahing at the effect. One of the youngest girls pulled at Joshua’s sleeve for attention.

  “Did the tree just grow like that?”