Boys Don't Knit (5 page)

Second knitting class last night.

On the way there Dad started talking about Frank Lampard again.

‘I'm sure he's a fantastic player,' I told him. ‘All I'm saying is that I, personally, have never seen him score a goal. It always goes over the top, or hits the bar.'

‘You aren't paying enough attention, then, because he scored sixteen goals for Chelsea last season,' Dad said seriously.

‘And how many did he miss?'

‘Well, this is the thing,' Dad explained patiently. ‘Frank's philosophy is that if you don't shoot, you don't score. He always takes a punt. He has a poor shot-to-goal ratio, but he still ends up scoring a lot of goals.'

‘I get that. I've just never seen it happen,' I said.

‘Right, you and I are going to a game this season,' he said. ‘A league game, in London.'

‘No, Dad,' I said, panicking. ‘We can't afford to go to Stamford Rd.'

‘Stamford Bridge.'

‘Or Stamford Bridge,' I said.

‘Let me worry about the money,' he said. ‘I've got some mates with season tickets. I'm going to make this happen.'

‘Great,' I said weakly. ‘Amazing.'

Before the class started, I went down the hall to class 3E, where Miss Swallow was taking pottery. I popped my head round the door and smiled when I saw the coast was clear. I crept in and approached a giant lump of light brown clay sitting on a table. I was standing there, like Indiana Jones, just about to grab a handful when the door swung open behind me and I jumped my own height.

‘Can I help you?'

I turned to see Miss Swallow, looking absolutely ravishing. Her top button was undone and her hair was tied back in a ponytail.

‘I  …  um  …  I,' I said suavely.

‘Hello, Ben,' she said, in a friendly way. ‘You're not in this class, are you?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Aren't you doing knitting?'

How did she know? How?

I nodded.

‘That's down the hall. 3G,' she said, cheerily, smiling her mega-smile.

‘OK,' I said, deciding I needed to seize the moment. ‘But before I go, do you think I could have some clay?'

‘Oh  …  sure,' she said, surprised by the request. She took hold of a thin wire with handles on either ends and expertly cut a chunk of clay off the big block. Her elbow brushed against me as she did this and I caught a whiff of her perfume. It took everything I had to keep myself from closing my eyes and breathing in deeply.

‘What's it for?' she asked.

‘I need it for a school project.' Having only had a few seconds to come up with a plausible reason why I wanted a lump of clay, I was pleased with my explanation.

‘I see,' she said, wrapping my clay in a thin plastic sheet. ‘What's the project?'

I cast my eyes around the room madly, trying to find inspiration in everyday objects. My gaze went full circle before coming back to the lump of clay, which was sitting on top of a box, which was itself on a table top.

‘A ziggurat,' I said blindly. ‘I have to build a Mayan ziggurat with people and priests and sacrificial victims and everything.'

‘Wow,' Miss Swallow said. ‘That sounds amazing. I'd better cut you some more.'

‘No, no. This will do for now,' I said. ‘I can always come back.'

‘That's right,' she said, flashing me another heart-breaking smile. ‘You can always come back. I want to see that ziggurat when it's finished, OK?'

‘Righto, Miss Swallow,' I said.

‘You can call me Jessica when we're not in school, Ben,' she said.

‘OK, Jessica,' I replied, grinning, then I ran for it.

Of course, it's a completely insane suggestion that Miss Swallow could have been flirting with me. Things like that don't happen in real life. Even Joz would have thought twice about using such a situation as a scene in
Fifty Shades of Graham
.

Mrs Hooper was in 3G when I arrived at Knitting. I stashed the clay in my bag and if she noticed she didn't say anything. I was the first one there again and Miss Hooper asked me to distribute everyone's work. I couldn't help but notice how much longer and neater my piece was than everyone else's.

‘I'm glad to see you've come back,' she said, smiling warmly at me.

‘Why wouldn't I come back?' I asked. And then it struck me that the idea of pulling out simply hadn't occurred to me. I could have switched to pottery. I could have phoned up Ms Gunter in tears and demanded to know what classes were available on a Tuesday.

‘Oh,' she said, shrugging. ‘The men we've had on this course before have never lasted long.'

‘No stamina,' I replied. I was pleased she'd bracketed me as a man, rather than a boy. That's what sixth-form college does for you.

People started arriving then, and I said hello to everyone as they came in, including Natasha and Amelia, the fuller-figured girls.

‘Hey, Bob. Would you like to sit with us?' Natasha asked.

‘It's Ben,' I said, blushing. ‘But OK.' I don't really fancy either of them, though they both have quite pretty faces, especially Natasha. But Natasha is a bit of a close talker and Amelia is a mouth-breather. I discovered that apart from knitting they both love cats and vampire novels.

Once the class got under way, Mrs Hooper showed us how to knit in a complete circle, to do necks, and sleeves and things. Knitting in the round, it's called, where you join up the two sides to make a cylindrical object. I was starting to realise that knitting is basically just maths. Geometry. Once you'd worked out the mechanics of using the needles, then it was just about keeping the geometry of the piece in your head while you carried out the repetitions necessary.

The time flew and before I knew it we were packing up. Natasha told me about an illuminating knitting podcast, so I gave her my email address so she could send me some links.

As we headed down the hall I snuck away from the others so I could pull out my lump of clay and work it through my fingers. I even smeared a little on my cheek for extra authenticity before heading down to the workshop to find Dad.

I'm kind of getting the hang of the subterfuge now.

I once made the mistake of telling Joz how much I fancied Miss Swallow.

‘We all fancy her,' he'd said, hunched over his PS2 control.

‘Yeah, but it's different with me,' I said. I was feeling wistful, dangerous. ‘I think I might actually be in love with her.'

‘You should tell her,' Joz said, blowing the head off a zombie.

‘Yeah, good plan.'

‘No, seriously,' he said, pausing the game to look at me. ‘Look, you know how old men fancy young girls, right?'

‘Uh  …  yes.'

‘Well, it works the same with old women and young boys.'

‘Miss Swallow's not an old woman.'

‘She's got wrinkles,' he pointed out. It was true; when she smiled she had little crow's feet which made my stomach flip. ‘Have you heard of cougars?'

‘Yes, I've heard of cougars,' I said, thinking of my dad's DVD collection.

‘Joshua Wilkinson told me the Swallower was at Wicked nightclub a couple of weeks ago, sexy-dancing with Gareth Symons and Frankie Bell and they only finished school last year.'

‘But she has a boyfriend,' I said, shocked.

‘And how old is this boyfriend?' Joz asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘I don't know, thirty-four?'

‘Well, maybe she's looking to trade him in for a younger model,' he said, giving me a see-there-you-go look. Then he turned back to the game.

Could it be true? Could Miss Swallow be a cougar?

I've been looking up knitting online. It's actually quite interesting. There are tons of groups and all sorts of people involved. There's the Stitch and Bitch group who have regular meet-ups in coffee shops and knit and bitch at the same time. There's the Purl and Hurl group who have regular meetings in pubs to knit and drink and there's one predominantly for male knitters too called Knit Club. Presumably they have regular meet-ups in a warehouse to knit and fight. There's this on their website:

The First Rule of Knit Club is

Nobody Talks About Knit Club

The Second Rule of Knit Club is

No Fair Isle Sweaters

There are some podcasts too, and I downloaded the one that Natasha recommended, called
Knitwits!
, which is recorded by two knitting obsessives from the US. I listened to a bit, and it did sound just like one of those spoof comedies on Channel 4, except these two are deadly serious. It's not a joke. Knitting is not a joke.

I'd become engrossed in a fascinating article on cast-ons, bound-offs and selvages (the sides of your knitted piece) when the door opened and someone came in. I slammed the laptop shut and looked up guiltily.

It was Mum, looking embarrassed.

‘OK. I know what that looked like  … ' I began. ‘But it's completely not what you think  … '

‘It's OK,' she said. ‘I read an article about this in
Modern Mother
.'

‘Since when do you read
Modern Mother
?' I asked, intrigued, despite the situation.

‘They ran an interview piece with me and sent a free copy,' she explained. ‘Anyway, it's perfectly natural to be curious about ladies, or boys  …  or in fact, lady boys.'

‘Oh God, please stop,' I groaned.

‘Just don't let it get out of hand,' she said, smiling.

‘That had better not be a double entendre, Mum,' I said, eyeing her suspiciously.

‘I'm just saying that it's nothing to be ashamed of, exploring yourself and your  …  interests.'

‘It was a knitting website, Mum,' I said. ‘I was looking at a knitting website, see?'

I opened the laptop and turned it around so she could see. She flinched briefly, but then looked.

‘Oh,' she said, sounding almost disappointed. ‘Right. Good  …  So, you're serious about this knitting thing?'

‘I wouldn't go that far,' I laughed, with forced jollity. ‘But if you're going to do something  …  y'know. And it's actually quite interesting. Might as well do it to the best of your ability  …  right?'

She looked at me for a while thoughtfully, then nodded. ‘I understand, Ben. I used to knit, too.'

‘You did?'

‘Yes. Wasn't much good at it, but I gave it a go when I was pregnant with you. Knitted a few booties, and a little hat, which was far too small. At the time I was blissfully unaware of just how massive that head of yours was going to be.' A faint look of remembered pain floated across her face. She took off her glasses and began to clean them.

‘I'll look in the loft, see if I can find my old needles,' she said. ‘Still have some good yarn too, I think. Does yarn go off?'

I smiled at her. She was daft sometimes.

‘That'd be great,' I said. ‘But Mum, would you mind  … '

‘What?'

‘Would you mind if we kept this our little secret, for now?'

‘OK, sure,' she said.

‘It's just that if my friends found out, they wouldn't understand  … ' We both knew it wasn't just my friends I was talking about.

She nodded, she understood.

She grinned at me, and I grinned back. A shared moment.

‘Mum,' I said, eventually.

‘Yes?'

‘Why did you come in here?'

‘Hmm?' she said. ‘Oh yes. It's to tell you my manager has managed to extend the tour, so I'll be off for another two weeks.'

‘From when?'

‘Tomorrow,' she said, grimacing sympathetically.

‘Oh, OK,' I said, trying not to let my disappointment show. I'm happy for Mum, that her career is finally getting somewhere, but I miss her when she's not around. I don't like it when we're not all together.

I'm losing it. Bellend Ben, missing his mummy, hiding knitting needles under his bed.

Sigh. I don't mind Giving Something Back, but do I have to Give it Back to Mrs Frensham? She's mental, and hated me even before I smashed a bottle of Martini Rosso over her head. Something that everyone seems to have forgotten about in the fuss is that she nearly took my head off with a giant lollipop. Why can't I Give Something Back to another old lady – one who'll make me cakes and press pound coins into my hand and tell me I remind her of her youthful husband? Why can't someone else help Mrs Frensham?

Someone like the waffle-cone killer.

Knitting was tricky tonight. We learned how to change to a different colour wool halfway through. I got it, after a few false starts and felt quite pleased with myself. Shame I can't tell anyone.