Knit One Pearl One (20 page)

Bloody hell she’s good. It’s like she’s got a script in her head, which Maxine and Ed have worked on for her, so it covers all the messages she wants to get across, and she just delivers it, perfectly. Actually, that’s exactly what she’s got, but, God, she’s good.

They move on to talking about the film, with amusing snippets about costars and filming car chases and what it was like being suspended by wires to film the diamond robbery scene. I’m meant to be sitting knitting, presumably with a relaxed smile on my face, but I seem to have forgotten how to knit. I manage a series of random stitches, on the cotton square for Connie’s blanket, before I drop a stitch entirely and have to try to surreptitiously pick it up. So that’s obviously terribly impressive for someone who’s meant to be a knitting guru. God, I hope nobody writes in to complain.

“So, Jo, how does it feel to have such a famous customer? Actually darling, why are you slumped like that? Sit up, can’t you? Cut. Scott, sort her out with a cushion. For God’s sake don’t just stand there. Help her out. She’s my best friend, I’ve told you, I want her to look fabulous, not like she’s deformed, for fuck’s sake.”

Grace looks like she might be about to laugh.

“Jo.”

“Yes, Grace.”

“Talk to me. Just forget everybody else and talk to me and Ellen. Actually, do you all need to be here? It is rather oppressive. Bruno, go downstairs, you’re putting Jo off.”

Actually it’s the camera and the soundman and the sight of Scott looking anxious which is putting me off, not poor Bruno, but never mind.

“Jo.”

“Yes Grace.”

“What am I meant to be doing now with this, casting on or casting off?”

“Just increase a stitch at each end of each row.”

“In the knit stitch, in the border, yes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a shame. I’ve been doing it on the purl stitch.”

“It’s fine, it won’t matter, as long as you do it in the same place, so it forms a pattern. It’s quite loose, that’s why the needles are so big.”

“Are you sure? I love this color, I want to get it right.”

“I’m sure.”

Grace gives me one of her biggest smiles and then looks down at her knitting as Ellen leans forward slightly.

“So, Jo, how does it feel to have such a famous customer?”

“It’s lovely.”

“And why do you think knitting is making such a comeback?”

“Well, once you’ve got the hang of the basics, it can be very relaxing.”

“And you sell kits, with everything you need to make a simple project, is that right? So if people don’t live nearby, they can still have a go? Blankets for babies, and your lovely shawls. Like the one Grace is knitting?”

“Yes. We write our own patterns, and try to keep them as simple as we can. And people can phone us, if they get stuck.”

Grace smiles, a major Diva smile that makes everyone look at her.

“Jo is absolutely right, it is relaxing, and you’re also reconnecting to a traditional craft which women have perfected over the centuries. So you feel part of a long line of women, knitting to keep their families warm, and that’s very special.”

Bloody hell, that’s a good answer. Even Ellen looks impressed.

“There’s something so special about making things for the people you love. Jo has helped me make so many things for Lily. I knitted blankets for her when she was tiny, and toys. The little duck I knitted for her is one of her favorites, and I’m terribly proud of that. And when I’m working, well, as you know, Ellen, there’s a fair amount of hanging around when you’re filming, so it’s great to have something productive to do.”

“And is being part of the local community important to you, Grace?”

“Very. There’s such a wonderful atmosphere, I love living somewhere so normal.”

“So no plans to move to Hollywood just yet?”

“Never. I’m a Kentish girl and proud of it.”

“So what’s next, Grace?”

“Well, Jo and I are looking at some beautiful new yarns, from British producers, I’m keen to support that, it’s so important that we keep our rare breeds, and they produce beautiful tweeds and organic wools in natural colors. Great for when it’s chilly.”

Ellen smiles. She meant what’s the next film project, and Grace knows it.

“And I’m working on a new film I’m very excited about, I’ll be producing this one too, we’re working on the script now. I can’t say too much, but I get to knit. So that’s a good start.”

“Can you give us a hint?”

“
Upstairs Downstairs,
with a twist. I think it’s going to be fabulous, at least I hope it is. People are always so lovely about my work, so I really hope they’re going to like it.”

I can see Maxine is moving forward now. I think she’ll probably stand in front of the camera if Ellen doesn’t finish soon.

“Well thank you, Grace, and Jo, this has been lovely. Who knows, maybe I’ll get my knitting needles out again.”

“Not at all, and thank you, Ellen, this has been such a treat. I’m sure Jo can find you the perfect project, you’ve got a little boy, haven’t you? Why don’t you make him something in this blue? It’s such a beautiful color, just like a pale seaside sky.”

She picks up a ball of wool from the basket on the table and hands it to Ellen. “It would make a beautiful blanket.”

“I might just do that. Thank you, Grace.”

She smiles.

There’s a silence.

“Thanks, Grace, that was great.”

Maxine steps forward. “Can you turn the camera off, please?”

Al tuts but puts the camera down. Clever Maxine.

“There’s a photographer downstairs, from the local paper. I said we’d do some shots of you leaving.”

“Thanks, Max, was that okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Jo?”

“Amazing. I don’t know how you do it.”

She smiles and turns to Ellen. “It’s all part of the job. Thanks, Ellen, that was nice, lovely to see you again. And Jo, I’ll see you later in the week.”

A few of the photographers who lurk outside Graceland have turned up, and there’s a flurry of cameras flashing as she leaves, and then she stops by the car so the local reporter, who looks about twelve and doesn’t seem that confident with his camera, can get a decent picture. Gran and Elsie are waving through the café window, and he takes their photo too.

“Can I have a quote, from Grace Harrison? What did she say?”

Ellen fixes him with a very beady look.

“If you’re asking me did she say anything during my exclusive interview with her, well, funnily enough, yes, she did. Am I going to give it to you? No, I’m bloody not.”

He’s looking rather terrified now.

“I tell you what, though.
I’ll
give you a quote, will that do?”

“Oh, would you? That would be great.”

“Sure. Ellen Malone said she was thrilled to have such a major guest for the launch of her new series next week, and she was very impressed that, what’s the paper called?”

“The Whitstable and Broadgate Gazette.”

“Very impressed that the
Gazette
were waiting outside the shop. It just shows that local journalism is alive and kicking.”

“Oh, thanks, that’s great.”

“My pleasure. Now bugger off.”

“Right you are. And thank you, Miss Malone. I really appreciate it. People are so rude sometimes.”

“Are they, darling? What a shocker.”

We’re still giggling when Tom brings us a coffee.

“That was great, Jo. She’s a total star, isn’t she? Thanks, Tom. If you ever want a job in town, let me know, great coffee. We could use you at the studio.”

Tom looks pleased. And rather interestingly, Cinzia does not. Which is probably a good sign for Tom.

“No, you’re all right, but thanks, I’ve got my band, you see, we’re starting to get a few bookings, so this is just to tide me over. Oh, sorry Jo.”

“It’s fine, Tom. I didn’t think this was the height of your ambitions.”

“Did it go all right then?”

“Well, apart from me nearly sliding off my chair, and getting completely tongue-tied, yes, it was great.”

Ellen laughs. “You weren’t that bad, darling. Trust me, I’ve had worse. At least you didn’t say
fuck.
Or throw up. Or both.”

“It was a close-run thing, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I might knit one of those blankets, you know. She’s right, that was a great color. Can you sort me out with all the stuff?”

“Sure. Don’t you fancy knitting a duck then?”

“No, sounds too tricky. Did she really knit one for Lily?”

“No comment.”

“Oh stop it.”

“I signed a confidentiality clause. Of course she did. It was lovely.”

“And if she hadn’t?”

“Of course she did. It was lovely.”

“Great. You’re meant to be my best friend you know, darling. Don’t let the Diva dazzle you.”

“I’m not. But I do like her.”

“I do too. She’s pretty normal, for a megastar. And her skin, Christ, not a trace of anything toxic. It must be natural, lucky cow. Beautiful eyes too.”

“I know. It’s amazing she’s not in films really.”

It’s ten past two on Monday afternoon, and I’m wedged in the window with cramp in one arm and sand up both my sleeves. I’m finally changing the Easter display to our summertime seaside one, after the chaos of the last couple of weeks. Ellen’s interview caused a sensation locally, and we’ve had loads of new customers coming in. The website’s gone mad, and we’ve had so many orders for knitting kits we’ve had to set up a mini–assembly line in the workroom. I’ve put in an order for more of our McKnits boxes, and I’ve even been able to push the suppliers for a much higher discount. It’s all been completely brilliant.

“That looks lovely, pet.”

“Thanks Gran.”

“You should ring the paper and tell them about the new window, now the shop is so famous. I bet that they’d come back.”

“I think we’ve had enough excitement for a while, don’t you, Gran?”

The local paper sent another would-be reporter round last week, a young woman this time, and Elsie wore her multicolored cardigan for the photographs, which was a shame as I wasn’t really aiming for Nutter as our design motif. But Gran and Laura looked lovely, sitting knitting in the café with Tom in the background, and the reporter bought some wool before she left, so that was encouraging. “You’re probably right, pet. If she tells me one more time what she said to the reporter, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Elsie’s been in seventh heaven, giving media snippets to anyone who shows the slightest interest. She’s even got a scrapbook of cuttings, which she keeps under the counter. It’s her afternoon off today, but I’m guessing she’s probably out getting more prints made for her album.

“To hear her talk, you’d think none of us were there; she’s always been the same, taking center stage when there’s no call for it, she’s always been a—”

“Bugger.”

Gran giggles. “She means well, pet.”

“No, it’s just I’ve just stapled the cuff of my shirt to the bloody partition again.”

“Shall I put the kettle on? Let’s see if Madam has left us any biscuits, shall we? But I wouldn’t hold your breath if I were you.”

I’m trying to fix swathes of dark blue net into artistic waves. I’ve already got the silver net up, and the fronds of seaweed Laura knitted, in different shades of green, which are rather beautiful, so I’m trying to make sure they aren’t completely covered with the bloody net. But every time I get it into the right position, someone taps on the glass to say hello, and I have to start all over again. Clare has just held baby Ava up to do smiling and waving, which was sweet, but you do have to wave back unless you want to look like a total snooter. I need one of those curtains like the ones the big shops in London have when they’re doing their windows. Although round here, people would probably just come in and open them, so they could see what you were doing.

All the knitted fish are bobbing around on their nylon thread, looking very nautical, and I’ve knitted a couple of starfish to dot in among the pebbles and sand. The papier-mâché ones the boys made when we first moved down here are in the box ready to put out, along with the lobster and little crabs I knitted last year, although admittedly some are more crablike than others. Laura’s knitted some coral too, and a giant shell, in lovely shades of cream and gray, with a pale pink lining: she’s really getting into knitting things for the windows, and we’re taking pictures so she can put them in her Project folder for college. I’ll hang up the string of flags I knitted last year, in bright, jaunty colors, although Martin says he’s going to look them up in his new boat-owner semaphore book in case they’re signaling something rude. I’m not sure people actually do semaphore anymore, but if they do, at least he’s got the book. He better not let Elsie see it though, or she’ll be hoisting signals up for the entire town to see. Come home and get your washing. Have you got your coat on? That kind of thing.

“It looks great, Jo. I love those fish; they must have taken you ages.”

“Thanks, Laura, but the first year was the hardest; now I only have to add in a few new pieces, like your lovely coral.”

“My tutor said she might come in and have a look. Can I take some photos of the café window too?”

“Of course.”

I’ve already put the old cream jugs and the knitted roses in, and I’ll add in a few more woolen cakes and the bowl of knitted strawberries as the summer season really kicks off. Gran’s knitting some more sandwiches and some little fairy cakes, to go in the old wicker picnic hamper, and that got a lot of nice comments last year, particularly the woolly ham-and-egg pie, which took me bloody ages.

“I meant to say, Jo, I’ve had a think about it, and I’d love to, do the group I mean, if you’re still sure.”

I’ve asked Laura if she’ll run a beginners’ class on Saturdays for me. She’s got a real eye for color, but she’s also very gentle and patient, just the kind of person you want to start you off knitting. I need to get more classes going which don’t involve me having to be there every minute, especially at the weekends.

“You’ll be great, Laura, I know you will, and Elsie will be around, and Olivia too, she’s in on Saturdays, don’t forget. I usually nip in as well, if I can park the kids with Gran or Cinzia, and Tom’s happy to do the café as long as you’re around for the lunchtime rush. Let’s try Saturday afternoon, shall we, and see how many people sign up.”

“I’m really looking forward to it, and I can write it up for my course work, so that’ll be a real help. I’m a bit behind. I never get time in the evenings what with Rosie and everything, and my tutor says I need a lot more written stuff.”

“I’ve got some notes I did for the school knitting project, I’ll bring them in. There’s lots on the history of the Guilds, and all the different traditions of knitting socks and lace, and some great photographs.”

“That would be brilliant, thanks.”

We’re standing drinking tea with Gran and writing a notice for the board about the new class when Mrs. Marwell comes in.

“Hello Mary. We don’t see you behind the counter so much now. Hasn’t your Jo done well, I bet you’re pleased as punch. I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jo, can I have your autograph, for my book?”

Oh God, this is getting ridiculous.

“I like to get one from all the famous people in Broadgate. My book will be worth a few bob one day I shouldn’t wonder. Look, I’ve got Mr. Parsons from the ironmongers, and he stood next to Angela Rippon in a queue at Waterloo Station once. She always had such lovely outfits on when she read the news, and she was a lovely dancer, you know.”

“Right, well, that’s very kind, but—”

“When I was younger I used to go up to London, to the Palladium. There were proper stars in those days, and if you waited at the stage door they’d always take the trouble to sign your book for you. Give you a kiss too, if you were lucky. Not that I went in for that sort of thing, well, not much anyway, but I did have my moments.”

Gran smiles. “I bet you did, Florrie.”

Bless. Now we’ll have to look at the pages in her book with signatures from a load of people we’ve never heard of, although Gran might recognize a few.

“Let’s see, oh yes, he was one of my favorites.”

“Who’s that, Mrs. Marwell?”

“Frank Sinatra. And there’s Dean Martin. Such nice boys. Have you got a pen, dear? I’ve got one in here somewhere.”

Bloody hell. She starts unpacking her basket onto the counter, which I know from previous experience can take a while. Gran is looking at her feet, trying not to smile as a tin opener and a glove join the growing pile.

“I’ve got a pen, thanks, Mrs. Marwell, if you’re sure.”

“Oh right you are then. What’s that, on top of that box?”

“A starfish, for the window, the boys made it.”

“Did they? Well, isn’t that lovely. I didn’t know they were that purple color. Are you still doing your charity basket, dear?”

“Yes, we’ve moved it upstairs though, and it’s a bit of a mess up there.”

“Bit of a muddle never hurt anyone. I’ve got all sorts in my front room at home, but I like to have a few bits and pieces around me. Now, where did I put that? Here it is, I want to put this in, I never really liked the color, but it does knit up nicely. I just need a bit of green, to finish off the neckband of one of my sweaters for the orphans, poor little things. The church is sending off another parcel soon and I don’t like to let them down.”

“I’ll come up with you, Florrie, see what we can find.”

“Thanks Mary.”

Gran winks at me as they go upstairs. The charity basket was definitely one of my better ideas. People are pretty good about putting something in if they take anything out, oddments of wool left over, sometimes nearly a whole ball. I’ve put little plastic bags in too so things don’t get in a tangle, and we put old stock in, especially when we’re not reordering. Elsie likes having shelves full of bargain wool, but I think it looks tatty, so the charity option is much better. Mrs. Marwell buys a few new balls of wool for her sweater, and uses the basket for the contrast colors. She’s only got a small pension, and she’s knitting for charity, so it doesn’t seem right to make her pay more than she needs to. So everyone is happy; well, apart from Elsie.

Bloody hell, it’s five past three.

“I better go and get the boys, Laura, can you tell Gran?”

“Sure. She’ll probably be up there ages. I’ll keep an eye out for customers; the café’s pretty quiet. Who knew, though, Mrs. Marwell and Frank Sinatra?”

“I know. Still, it goes to show, you never can tell. Just because she gets her wheelie trolley stuck in the door doesn’t mean she didn’t go in for a fair bit of razzle-dazzle when she was younger.”

“Razzle-dazzle? I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.”

The sun is shining as I walk to school: Easter was freezing, and wet, but today it feels like summer might finally be on the way. We might be able to have a picnic at the weekend, after Mum arrives, and I can lock her in the beach hut if she gets too annoying.

Connie’s in the playground, sitting on the bench under the chestnut tree. She looks tired; the combination of heartburn and the baby kicking is stopping her from getting much sleep. I’m so glad I’m not pregnant; one look at her and I remember just how knackering it was.

“How was last night?”

“Three weeks, with no sleeping. It is not possible.”

I think once the baby arrives she might find it is, but I want to be encouraging.

“Did you try the milk of magnesia?”

“Yes, and it helps. But then I lie down, and it does not.”

“Have you tried sleeping sitting up, sweetheart? It was the only way I got any proper sleep at all with Archie, and Pearl too come to think of it, in that old pink armchair I’ve got in the living room, the one with the roses. Nick hated it, he said they should call it bourgeois floral instead of Peony Parade, or whatever they called it in the shop, but it was worth every bloody penny. You’re welcome to try it if you like.”

She smiles. “If I don’t sleep tonight, then yes, I will.”

“Good.”

“Porca Madonna.”

Annabel is barreling across the playground toward us, with Mrs. Nelson in her wake.

“Christ, it must be serious if she needs backup.”

She’s clutching her clipboard and her fountain pen, which isn’t a good sign. She hasn’t actually spoken to me since the television thing, but she’s been giving me particularly furious looks for the last few days, so I’m pretty sure she saw it.

“Afternoon, ladies. I just wanted a little word about the Summer Fayre, although I do realize Mrs. Maxwell is likely to be otherwise engaged with her happy event.”

She pauses and glances at Connie’s tummy, and then looks away, as if she’s just seen something unpleasant.

“But if you did a knitting stall, Mrs. Mackenzie, I’m sure that would be popular.”

A knitting stall: is she mad?

“I’m so busy at the moment, Annabel. I really don’t think I could manage a whole stall. Are any of the other local shops doing stalls this year?”

She looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. Which I would be if I agreed to run a stall at her bloody fayre. Connie and I already got stuck doing the White Elephant a couple of years back, standing in the boiling heat trying to flog a load of old tat. Never again.

“People are always so generous. I’m sure you want to do everything you can to support our school.”

Connie stands up. “Yes, we do, with the walking bus, and with all the other things, but so. Enough. We will come to the fayre, and we will buy things, like the other people do.”

Mrs. Nelson looks rather pale now, but Annabel isn’t going to be diverted so easily.

“Of course I quite understand how busy you are, running your little businesses. Sometimes I don’t know how I fit everything in, being President of the PTA does take an awful lot of my time, but of course I am lucky enough not to have to work.”

She pauses, and Mrs. Nelson gives her a simpering smile.

“If you can’t do a stall, then I’m sure you’ll both want to join our Auction of Promises? It’s such a super idea; we’ll be sending round a leaflet. I’ve already arranged for my tennis coach to offer an hour’s tuition, and he does get terribly booked up. Perhaps you can offer a meal in your restaurant, Mrs. Maxwell.”

“I will talk to Mark, and we will see.”

Lucky enough not to have to work? God, she’s annoying.

“And I did want to mention”—she’s looking rather pointedly at me now—“if our local celebrity wanted to join in our little auction, that would add a great deal of excitement. Perhaps a lunch, or dinner of course. And may I just say, strictly entre nous, I can guarantee that there would be a very respectable bid. I’ve already spoken to my husband, and we’d be very happy to contribute most generously.”

Mrs. Nelson nods encouragingly.

I think the plan is for me to persuade Grace to be auctioned, like that’s ever going to happen in a million years, and then Annabel will make her husband put in a hefty bid, and bingo, Annabel gets to have lunch with Grace, and can boast about it to all of her friends at the bloody Tennis Club. Oh dear. I may have just found yet another way to annoy her. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound as Gran would say. I might as well enjoy it.