An English Boy in New York (3 page)

I've actually been spending a bit more time with Freddie recently. Today I rode my bike out to Hampton FC's ground for my guilty displeasure. I may have mentioned this before but I hate football. Dad calls it the beautiful game, but sitting in an ice storm watching twenty-two badly tattooed smokers run through heavy mud and failing to score is not the classic definition of beauty, as described by the poets.

So why am I still going to watch Hampton FC even though Dad isn't there? I think there's possibly been some behind-the-scenes discussions between my subconscious and my psyche that acknowledges that although the whole knitting thing is completely cool and we're all fine with my sexual identity and my being able to flange my selvages in a delightfully cheeky way doesn't mean that I'm effeminate, nonetheless it's important not only to remember my masculine side but also to exhibit it in public from time to time. Hence, the odd appearance at a manly football match.

So there I was, sitting between Freddie, wearing a huge Puffa jacket, and Gordon McGavin from McGavin's Electrical Solutions, who was wearing a Russian hat and a sheepskin coat. I had a 4-ply merino wool tank top under my roll-top cable-knit sweater plus a beanie I'd knitted over the weekend and I was still colder than I'd ever been in my life.

‘They say they're building a new stand next season,' Mr McGavin grunted. ‘Hopefully it'll be made of concrete. Cut out some of this sodding wind.'

‘They could build it out of ice,' I suggested. ‘Like that hotel in the Arctic.'

Hampton were playing Liss and neither team had much zip about them. It was heavy going in the mud, the weather was freezing and with no exciting Joe Boyle, there was also no ravishing Jessica Swallow sitting in the stands, so no one to show off to.

At half-time I staved off boredom by reading Freddie's dad's copy of the
Daily Mail
. There was an article about deep vein thrombosis which you get if you sit still on a plane for too long. Apparently this granny had to have her leg amputated after a flight to, you guessed it, New York. She then had to sell her house to pay the medical bills.

So that's something else to worry about. Yippee.

‘So, Freddie,' I began, as Milford kicked off the second half. Hampton's left back slipped in the mud and lay helplessly, watching the ball trickle over the line.

‘Corner!' someone shouted.

‘How would you like to go to America?'

‘Eh?'

‘America. New York. Remember I won those tickets?'

‘No.'

‘Remember at the Knitting Show in London?'

‘Oh right. You won?'

I paused. Had he really forgotten already?

A Liss centre-half booted the ball randomly into the melee before the goalmouth. The exhausted players watched it plop into the churned mud and sit there. For a moment, nobody moved. Then the goalie stepped forward in a manner which said, ‘Well, if no one else can be bothered, I suppose it's up to me,' and banged it back down the pitch. The rest of the players set off after it with a collective sigh.

‘Yes. I won. Famously,' I reminded him. ‘I got a trophy. Joz broke his arm. Gex disguised himself as a sheep and had to go into hospital with blood poisoning from the dye. Remember?'

‘Oh yeah,' Freddie laughed.

‘So I won some tickets to go to another knitting show in New York,' I went on patiently. ‘And there are two tickets. So I wondered if you wanted to go with me?'

‘To New York?'

‘Yes.'

‘On a plane?'

‘Or we could walk?' I suggested.

‘I can't walk. I have an infected verruca.'

‘OK, let's fly, then.'

‘Well  … ' Freddie seemed to be thinking about it.

‘I'll come if he doesn't want to,' said Gordon McGavin. ‘Always wanted to go to New York.'

‘Thanks, Mr McGavin,' I said. ‘I'll put you on the reserve bench.'

He took me at my word and made me punch his number and email into my phone.

The ball had become bogged down in the far corner of the pitch. The players huddled around it, seemingly in no hurry to bring it back. Possibly they'd realised we couldn't see what they were up to over there and were having a quick smoke break.

‘So you'll come?' I asked.

‘Yeah, s'pose,' Freddie said.

‘Don't get too excited, will you.' I slumped back in my seat.

Why do I bother? I should have just sold the bloody thing on eBay.

Ran into Ms Swallow at school today. She was struggling with some boxes of essays for marking and I offered to help carry them to her car. She was wearing her hair up in a ponytail and I was so busy watching the smooth skin on the back of her neck that I forgot to listen to what she was saying.

‘ …  Ben?'

‘What? Sorry.'

She'd stopped to turn around and had a half-smile.

‘I said, I hear you're off to New York next week?'

‘Oh yeah. Did Miss Tyler tell you? She gave me permission to miss the classes as long as I take some work with me.'

‘Yes. It sounds amazing. You're so lucky. You don't happen to have a spare ticket, do you?' she laughed and carried on towards the car.

I laughed too. In a slightly strained way.

‘Are you taking Megan?' she asked.

I shook my head. ‘She can't go.'

‘Oh, shame,' she said. ‘It would have been fun to take a transatlantic flight with her.'

‘Totally.'

‘So who are you taking?'

‘Not sure yet. There are a few people interested; someone's going to be disappointed.'

‘I know, I could go as your chaperone,' she said. We both laughed again at the thought.

‘I'll add you to the list,' I said weakly. Then I nearly collapsed as she bent over to rest her box on the ground.

She's so beautiful. Imagine if she did come to New York with me. She might drink a little too much champagne on the flight over and fall asleep on my shoulder. Or maybe she'd be scared of flying and I'd have to put my arm around her in a comforting manner.

And once there, maybe the man from Priapia would offer me a top job thinking up knitting patterns and I'd turn it down and Ms Swallow would ask me why and I'd say, ‘Because you're my muse, Jessica Swallow, and I couldn't design so much as a table mat without you by my side.' And she'd say, ‘Why have you never told me this before?' And I'd say, ‘It was my secret. But I can't lie to you any more.'

Then she'd kiss me in the Bronx. As it were. We'd move into a nice brownstone apartment on the Upper West Side and I'd turn into a beardie hippy type and she'd do charity work and have an affair but own up to it and we'd get through it together and I'm going to stop because this whole thing is just turning into a John Irving novel and I don't even like John Irving.

I've got to stop obsessing over Jessica Swallow. I have a girlfriend!

5.47pm

I had a call from Mr Hollis just now. The neat man from Virilia who has taken such an interest in my entrepreneurials.

‘Hello, Ben,' he said. ‘I hear you're off to New York.'

‘That's right,' I said. ‘I'm going to the KnitFair USA.'

‘There might be some fantastic business opportunities there for you, Ben.'

I hadn't really thought too much about that, to be honest.

‘Our parent company in the US is called Priapia,' he went on. ‘Now, they have a clothing and textiles arm. It would be useful for you to meet with them.'

‘Would it?' I asked. I felt tendrils of anxiety suddenly creep down my spine. ‘What would I say?'

‘Oh, it would be very informal,' Mr Hollis said. ‘They're all very friendly. Just a chat, really.'

‘What about?' I pressed.

‘I think you should show them your clever design. The thing is, Ben, you are quite marketable. A young, male knitter, engaging, good-looking, if you don't mind me saying  … '

Was he coming on to me?

‘Textiles and clothing is a crowded market, Ben,' he said. ‘It's hard to get a product to stand out. Your cardigan design, and your story, might just be able to do it.'

‘Really? I'm just a kid from Hampton.'

‘Sometimes that's all that people are looking for.'

4.33pm

So I get a call today.

‘Ben?'

‘Yes, Ben speaking.'

‘It's Freddie.'

‘Hi, Freddie, how's the verruca?'

‘Hurts,' he said. ‘I talked to Mum, about going to New Orleans?'

‘New York?'

‘Yeah, that's what I meant. She says I can't go.'

‘So now she's being all maternal, is she?' I said, a bit annoyed. ‘I mean, who was it who left you and your nine-year-old sister home alone for an entire weekend with nothing more than a multipack of Walkers crisps.'

‘And some custard creams,' he reminded me.

‘Yeah, all right, but the point remains –'

‘I don't have a passport,' Freddie interrupted me calmly. ‘She says I can't go because I don't have a passport.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Fair enough.'

Another one bites the dust. Who's next?

Oh, that's right.

My mother.

7.52pm

Don't get me wrong. I love my mum. And we get on very well most of the time, when she's around. But when I heard I'd won a week in New York for two my first thought was not, ‘Ooh, I hope Mum's free!'

But I'm desperate now.

‘Do you fancy coming to New York with me, Mum?'

Mum and Dad glanced at each other in surprise.

‘It's just that Megan can't come, and I know you love the US. I have a spare ticket. It means missing out on climbing Mount Snowdon, of course  …  ha ha  … ' but I tailed off at the sight of her embarrassed face.

‘Ah. The thing is, Ben  … ' she began.

‘Oh God, Mum,' I said shaking my head slowly. ‘You're not going to turn me down as well?' I'm such a loser, I can't even get my mum to go to New York with me.

‘Well, not exactly,' she said. ‘The thing is, your father and I are coming anyway.'

I paused. ‘What?'

‘We're coming with you, anyway,' she repeated.

‘Try stopping us!' Dad said.

‘No Snowdonia?'

‘Snowdonia will still be there when we get back,' Dad said.

‘What about Molly?'

‘She's going to stay with Auntie Angela.'

‘And school?'

‘She's seven. She can miss a week.'

‘Can you afford to fly to America?'

‘It's all right,' Dad said. ‘I've been getting loads of work lately. And your mum's been turning tricks.'

My eyes bulged.

‘I've
sold
one of my tricks,' she corrected him.

‘Which one?' I asked.

‘The Corpse Bride.'

‘Is that the one where you murder someone in the audience?'

‘I don't murder them, I accidentally kill them and it's not real,' Mum said impatiently. ‘Anyway. Now I'm suspended by the Magic Circle, and your father has his bad knee, we thought it might be a good time to get away.'

‘Well, that's  …  a big surprise,' I said. I wasn't really sure how I felt about both of them being there, to be honest. I'd been looking forward to getting away from Dad for a while, but if I wasn't going to be going with Megan, then it wasn't as if they'd be cramping my style. And since I couldn't find anyone else to go with me, then at least I'd have some company.

‘I won't be able to do sightseeing with you,' I said. ‘At least not every day.'

‘I'm sure we'll keep ourselves busy,' Mum said, winking at Dad.

‘Your mum's going to look up an old flame,' Dad said.

‘What?' I said. ‘What old flame?'

‘His name's Diablo,' Dad said archly.

‘Diablo is not an old flame,' Mum said to me, blushing. ‘We were in the same class at Magic School. We practised our prestidigitation together.'

‘I'll bet you did,' Dad said.

‘If you'd rather I didn't see him  … ' Mum began.

‘I don't mind,' Dad said. ‘But if he tries to stick his sword into your magic box I'll  … '

‘I'm going to my bedroom,' I said hurriedly, darting for the door.

I spent the rest of the evening knitting a pair of orthopaedic compression stockings to combat DVT on the plane. I tried them on and they're a snug fit all right. Not particularly attractive, but very definitely orthopaedic.

I went to visit Mrs Frensham today. Considering the circumstance under which we met – me knocking her over with a stolen bottle of Martini Rosso – we've become quite good friends. You might say it's odd: a teenage boy being buddies with a pensioner, but she's good company now that she's stopped trying to decapitate me with giant lollipops, and we share a mutual interest in the craft of knitting.

It was too cold to sit in the Knitshed, so Mrs Frensham and I sat around her gas fire instead chatting and stitching. Jasper, her dog, lay between us, farting occasionally. The outdoor work I was doing for Mrs Frensham as part of my community service (following aforementioned Martini Rosso incident) is pretty much all finished, but our Monday night sessions have become an institution and I couldn't possibly stop visiting now. She usually finds a few jobs for me to do around the house before we get down to the serious business of knitting.

Mrs Frensham is working on a pair of hand warmers at the moment, which I'm actually a bit jels about. I don't have time for little luxuries such as hand warmers. It's all big-scale Hoopies and tank tops for me. I'm also doing a Hampton FC scarf for Dad's birthday. It's a double-knit using extra warm 4-ply. Scientifically designed to withstand the absolute zero temperatures at the ground.

Mrs Frensham was on the NY hitlist but when it came to it I had my doubts about actually asking a sixty-four-year old woman to come on holiday with me. I'd only put her down in the first place because I wanted to reassure myself that I had lots of friends. In fairness, she does love knitting and I always feel comfortable and relaxed in her presence, but I'm not sure that necessarily would carry us through a flight to New York and a week in a three-star Manhattan hotel. Our odd friendship works because we have a comfortable routine, in a familiar, safe environment and I probably shouldn't mess with that.

‘How's that girl of yours?' Mrs Frensham asked.

‘Megan? She's OK.'

‘Introduced you to her parents yet?'

‘Oh yes. I get on well with her mum, she has fantastic Tupperware.'

‘Fantastic what?'

‘Tupperware. All the lids fit all the boxes. You get shallow boxes, middle-sized boxes and deep boxes. But the lids are interchangeable.'

‘Oh, when you said “Tupperware”,' said Mrs Frensham, ‘I thought you were meaning something else.'

‘Funny you should say, but last week I did see a bit of Mrs Hooper's
Tupperware,
' I told her. ‘When she left her bedroom door open a bit. I caught a glimpse in the mirror as I walked past. She has a very impressive collection,' I added. ‘Of
actual
Tupperware, I mean.'

‘I'm sure she does,' Mrs Frensham said.

I've got to watch myself on the double entendres, or else I'll turn into my parents. Damn them!

We paused for a while to concentrate on our respective knitting, the only sounds the pleasant click of the needles, the hiss of the gas fire and the quiet gurgle of Jasper's digestive tract.

‘I hope you haven't told Megan how much you admire her mother's Tupperware,' Mrs Frensham said after a while, as though reading my thoughts.

‘I might have mentioned it,' I said. ‘Why?'

‘Good-looking woman that Naomi Hooper,' said Mrs Frensham.

‘That's true,' I said. ‘Anyway, Megan's refusing to come to New York with me.'

‘I'm sure she has her reasons.'

‘Yeah, like she's gone off me.'

‘Maybe,' Mrs Frensham said absently.

‘Do you think she's gone off me?'

‘She might.'

Mrs Frensham's honesty was in some ways refreshing but at the same time completely unwelcome.

‘Actually,' I said defensively, ‘it's to do with her gran being ill.'

Mrs Frensham looked up sharply. ‘Lottie? Lottie's ill, is she?'

‘Do you know her?'

‘Yeah. She's a Portsmouth girl like me.'

‘Were you in the same class at school, then?'

Mrs Frensham threw a pincushion at me.

‘She's twenty years older than me, you little twerp!'

‘Oh sorry.'

‘Do I look the same age as her, is that what you're saying?'

‘No,' I said.

Yes
, I thought. They were both white-haired and wrinkly. They dressed the same. How was I to know?'She was my teacher,' Mrs Frensham. ‘Lovely lady.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Though she can't remember my name. She calls me Simon.'

‘She used to know a lad called Simon,' Mrs Frensham said, a faint smile came over her face. ‘Handsome bloke.'

‘Really?' I asked, feeling pleased with myself. ‘I suppose that's why she thinks I'm him.'

‘Maybe.' Mrs Frensham looked at me doubtfully. ‘So you think Lottie being ill is the reason she's not coming with you?'

‘That's what she said.' I shrugged. Who knew what the truth was.

Dammit! I've just looked closely at the Hampton FC scarf I've been knitting for Dad and have realised I've misspelled Hampton as Hamton throughout. His birthday is tomorrow, I've no time to knit another.

Hamton FC. Twelve times.

What can I do?

10.15pm

I emailed Marie from the
Knitwits!
podcast and she got back to me straight away, asking if I'd like to meet up and record an interview while I'm over in New York. This is a big deal. I have no idea how many people listen to that podcast but there must be loads. Everything about it is proper quality, except for Marie's sidekick, Alanna, who's slightly irritating. And also they're going through a phase of knitting mainly animal-shaped cushions at the moment which doesn't interest me so much, frankly. But apart from that, it's the best knitting podcast I've found. She's going to contact me again while I'm in New York to arrange the exact time and place.

So who's next on the list after Mrs Frensham? Joe Boyle, who I put on as a joke. Hampton FC's star forward is not going to want to spend a week with a knitting weed in New York, even flying Executive Club. And anyway, what would we talk about? We don't have anything in common except that we both fancy his girlfriend and it might make things awkward if that came up.

So after Joe is Natasha. The full-figured girl who runs Pullinger's, where I get my wool. She's an interesting possibility.

Three things in favour:

Three things against: