The Great Christmas Knit Off (15 page)

‘My dear, how did you do it?’ Marigold says, in a low voice, leaning into me as soon as the shop door swings shut behind us.

‘Do what?’ I ask, pulling my hood up and slipping my mittens on; it’s freezing outside, but at least it’s stopped snowing now.

‘Transform our Hettie! She’s like her old bubbly self, full of vigour,’ Marigold says, her voice rising a few octaves as she pulls her car door open and starts rummaging around in the glove box.

‘Oh, um, I don’t know really. I guess we just hit it off,’ I shrug, before pressing my hands up to my cheeks to keep them from going numb in the wintery wind.

‘We’ve all been so worried about her.’ Marigold hauls herself back out of the car to stand squarely in front of me with her back to the shop, presumably so that Hettie can’t lip-read what she’s saying to me. ‘She clearly hasn’t been coping, or eating by the looks of her. And she hardly ever ventures out these days, despite our encouragement, and it’s such a shame as she used to be a leading lady in the Tindledale Players
– what with her being a dancer and all, and she was a marvel with the youngsters, choreographing their dance routines, teaching them tap and how to do all that jazz dancing.’

‘Wow! That’s amazing.’

‘Certainly is. But it all stopped a while ago, and if that nephew of hers gets his way then she could be homeless very soon,’ Marigold tuts, shaking her head dramatically, and I’m instantly horrified.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean …’ she pauses to sigh and shake her head ‘… that he’s a mean piece of work and is after Hettie’s land.’

‘Hmm, you know, he barged into me and knocked me to the ground in his hurry to leave the shop when I was going in.’

‘That sounds about right. He’s an obnoxious shit,’ Marigold says fiercely.

‘But she’s an old lady. Where will she go?’ I ask, dreading the answer. It’s clear that Hettie’s struggling to make ends meet and to keep on top of everything – she told me so herself – but even so, her own nephew!

‘Exactly. She’s not going anywhere,’ Marigold says sternly. ‘Not if we can help it, eh?’ She gives me a conspiratorial wink and a big nudge with her elbow.

‘Well, I’ll do whatever I can to help.’ I make a mental note to get cracking on tidying up the shop first thing tomorrow, right after I’ve set up the Hettie’s House of Haberdashery online shop and eBay account. I might even manage a simple WordPress website for her too, with a pretty snow-capped picture of the shop on it, some village scenes, and a selection of her knitting projects. I can see it now, all traditional-looking but whimsical and appealing too. And I’ll definitely put a picture of the Christmas-pudding jumper on there. Everyone loves a wacky festive jumper.

‘That’s very kind of you, Sybil. You know, that nephew of hers talked Hettie into “releasing equity” from the oast house years ago, with some cock-and-bull story about her becoming an investor in his building company and she’s still struggling to pay back the loan without so much as a sniff of a dividend from him. And recently I heard on the village grapevine that he plans to get his hands on her land to tear down the oast and the shop and build a whole load of those monstrous shoebox houses in their place.’ Marigold purses her lips. ‘
None
of us wants that to happen, least of all Hettie.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I say, but it explains why she seems to be scrimping on the basics, like food and heating – I saw the look on her face when she thought Marigold was after some coal earlier – Hettie used the last of it when Basil and I arrived, which, whilst it’s generous of her and a generational thing, I guess, to look after your guests ahead of yourself, I get that, it’s shocking that a lady of her age is practically on the breadline. And what about that pile of post she didn’t want me to see? We hear about the austerity measures all the time and I see it every day at work, people living in poverty, unable to even afford to keep a roof over their heads, but I never imagined it affecting people like Hettie … I bet that’s why she got anxious, did her hand-wringing thing, when Marigold mentioned the trip to the German Christmas market. She can’t afford a luxury like that when she can barely afford to eat. A lump forms in my throat so I inhale sharply and let out a long breath, hoping I never clap eyes on the nephew again, because right now there’s a very real possibility that I could end up doing something to him that could have very serious consequences for my own long-term freedom. And spending any length of time in prison really isn’t part of my life plan. Besides, where would Basil go? He’d never survive in a boarding kennel, or a rescue centre, no; he’s far too spoilt for all that. I shake my head as if to clear my vengeful thoughts.

‘It certainly is terrible,’ Marigold puffs indignantly. ‘I could wring his neck.’
Join the queue
. ‘Anyway, there’s the bus coming now so you had better stick your arm out.’ I do, and the bus stops short of the rickety old wooden bus shelter so I don’t have to trudge down the lane in the snow, which is nice of the driver. ‘I’m so glad you’re here in Tindledale. At this rate, we won’t ever want to let you go,’ she says and then Marigold does her trademark roar while giving my hand a hearty squeeze as I step onto the bus with Basil under my other arm, an enormous grin on my face and a fierce determination in my heart to help Hettie keep hold of her home and her glorious House of Haberdashery.

T
he bus eventually pulls up next to the snow-covered shelter in the village square. We had a slight delay after coming around a bend in a lane to be faced with a deer standing right in the middle of the road – all majestic it was, with enormous and very impressive antlers – and it took my breath away. The driver switched the engine off and we sat for a good few minutes while the deer eyeballed the bus before finally deigning to swagger off into the dense forest at the side of the road. I was beside myself with glee, whereas everyone else on the bus just carried on chatting or reading their newspapers like it’s an everyday occurrence, which I suppose for them it is.

Basil and I jump off the bus, thank the driver who must be going on his break now as he’s pouring a steamy cup of tea from a tartan-patterned flask, and make our way along the High Street, past The Spotted Pig café where we’re treated to a burst of a truly scrumptious aroma that fills the air as a customer opens the door and steps out onto the pavement – it’s cinnamon and nutmeg and it reminds me of a scented seasonal candle that Nana gave me one year on Christmas Eve. It was around the time they became an actual ‘thing’ and Cher had got one for her twelfth birthday a few months earlier, so I had been thrilled to have one too. Past the Paws Pet Parlour where there’s a magnificent Afghan hound standing on a metal table in the window having a blow-dry with a giant hairdryer attached to the ceiling on a bendy hose. The dog’s long, honey-hued hair is flowing and flaring out in the air as if it’s starring in a shampoo advert.

On we go, smiling at passers-by, all of us trying not to skid on the hard-compacted icy snow, until we’re standing right outside Tindledale Books, me with the fierce determination from earlier still in place and Basil wagging his tail eagerly as if he can’t wait to see what this next stop on our mini-break adventure has in store for him. I bet he’s imagining another roaring fire and perhaps a lovely granny patch blanket to snuggle up to.

I pull my hood down and push open the door, reminding myself that Adam left the message for me, so I haven’t really got anything to feel anxious about. But, still … and for some random reason, Mum’s ‘dipping your toe back in’ line comes into my head. Hardly, I’m just taking a look, that’s all, nothing wrong in being curious, and if there’s the slightest hint of him being another Luke, or even a
Star Wars
fan for that matter, then I’ll be scarpering faster than anyone can say Han Solo!

‘You can’t bring dogs in here,’ a sturdy-looking woman barks before I’ve even pushed the door open wide enough to actually get a Dolly Parton boot-clad foot over the threshold. The woman folds her arms after tapping at a sign in the window that has a picture of a black dog with a big red cross right through the centre.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see that there,’ I say, having obviously lulled myself into a far too relaxed state with Basil being allowed practically everywhere else in Tindledale – the village pub, the B&B and down at Hettie’s. What on earth am I thinking? I take a deep breath, as this doesn’t bode well for an exciting first encounter with a man that isn’t Luke. And when you’ve been with the same man for five years, the prospect of chatting to a new one can be very scary indeed, so this is all I need. Not.

‘He might damage the books, they’re very precious,’ the woman quips. I assume she’s the infamous Mrs Pocket, aka gatekeeper to the mysterious Adam.

‘I’m sure he won’t, but …’ And I’m just about to loop Basil’s lead around a lamppost when he chooses this exact moment to cock his leg in the gutter and let me down. She shakes her head before tutting and crossing her arms underneath her ample bust but she still doesn’t move. She glares at Basil’s offending stream of wee in the snow, as if expecting me to remove it at once. So, feeling awkward, I rummage in my bag for a bottle of water, flip the lid off and quickly sprinkle the liquid into the snow, hoping this will appease her.

‘That’s better. We like to look after our village,’ she smirks smugly with added emphasis on the ‘we’ and the ‘our’. I open my mouth to talk, wondering
what is her problem?
but quickly decide against antagonising her further. She studies me for a moment, before carrying on, ‘Are you something to do with
that
?’ and she releases one hand to point across the street.

‘Um,’ I swivel around to look in the direction of her pointy index finger and see a big white van pulling into the village square behind the stationary bus. It has Mobile Library signage written down one side. ‘Oh, no I’m not. But how lovely! I might pop in there to take a look after I’ve been in here,’ I say, gesturing to the inside of the bookshop, like a clue for her of my intentions.
Why won’t she let me in?

‘Hmm, so who are you then?’

‘I’m Sybil, but everyone calls me Sybs.’ She pulls a face, making me wonder if, like Hettie, she doesn’t approve of my shortened version of a classic, if dull, and quite frankly old-fashioned name, but it’s the best I can do within the limitations. ‘I’m here to see Adam,’ I say, using my extra-conciliatory voice, usually reserved for the more ‘challenging’ clients at work. She stares at me. A short silence follows while she sizes me up.

‘Well, you still can’t bring the dog in!’ And with that she marches off inside.

I’m trying to secure Basil’s lead around the lamppost when a young girl from the pet parlour next door pops her head outside.

‘You can leave him in here if you like. I’ll look after him.’ She smiles kindly, folding her arms against the chilly afternoon air.

‘Oh, if you’re sure. That would be great. Thanks so much,’ I say, walking Basil over to her, figuring it will be alright. Everything’s so different here.

‘Of course. He’s so cute. And look at his gorge little coat,’ she laughs, reaching her very impressive Santa airbrush-manicured hands down to scoop him up. Basil, immediately sensing another opportunity to preen, just like he did on the train with Dolly, rests his chin on the girl’s shoulder, making her go, ‘awwwww’ before trying to nibble her shiny gold Christmas-present-shaped dangly earring. ‘You can’t leave him outside in this freezing cold weather, no matter what that old cow from next door says.’ She rolls her eyes and I stifle a snigger as she then does a quick furtive glance to check that Mrs Pocket can’t actually hear her. ‘I saw her telling you off from the window, and I know how that feels ’cos I was always getting told off by her at school. She hated me – gave me detention once just for writing Robbie on the blackboard, you know, as in Robbie Williams.’ She shrugs and fiddles with one of the six loom bands on her left wrist.

‘Oh dear,’ I say diplomatically.

‘What’s his name?’ She gestures to Basil.

‘Basil.’

‘Like Basil Brush,
boom boom!
’ I smile, and a woman’s voice shouts out from inside the pet parlour.

‘Taylor, can you come here and give me a hand please, love?’

‘Oops, better go, that’s my mum, she’ll be wanting me to sit on the reception desk and answer the phone while she finishes off Petula.’ I lift my eyebrows. ‘The Afghan,’ Taylor clarifies. ‘See you later.’

‘Yes, see you later. I won’t be long. And thank you sooo much,’ I grin, giving Basil a little tickle under his chin. ‘Be good now,’ I say to him.

I walk up to the entrance of Tindledale Books and I’m just about to push open the door, when a hand appears on the other side of the small square of glass, swiftly flicking the
Open
sign over, so it now says
Closed
.

But hang on! So, after all that palaver, I now can’t even go inside. Well, we’ll see about that. Feeling bold, and a bit cheesed off, I try the door anyway, and it opens so I quickly step inside. Ha! I’m in now, and isn’t the rule that once you’re inside a shop, there’s an obligatory bit of time left still to buy stuff before they close, or at least that’s what they say over the Tannoy in the Tesco Metro just off Lewisham High Road. And I should know, I’ve bombed in there many a time to grab a bottle of pink wine on my way home from work to console myself with while knitting in front of the TV.