Boys Don't Knit (11 page)

I made a decision yesterday.

‘OK,' I said. ‘I'll do it.'

‘Do what?' Mrs Hooper replied absently. She was busy sorting out knitting needles into thicknesses. I admired the way her slim, nimble fingers sorted and shifted the thin rods, making everything neat. Turning chaos into order.

‘Enter the competition,' I said. ‘The Knit-Off.'

‘You mean the UK Knitting Championship? Oh, that's brilliant news,' she said, beaming. For one exciting moment I thought she might be going to hug me. She didn't.

‘But I have one condition,' I said. She blinked.

‘You can't tell anyone about this. Well, no one outside of the class. I'm not ready to come out just yet.'

She tried not to smile. ‘OK, Ben. I promise.'

‘The brochure said I'd need to submit a garment and an original pattern.'

‘The sweater you did will be perfect as a piece to submit,' she said. ‘You've already done your clever pattern design, so it's just the event itself.'

I wasn't sure I wanted to submit Pattern Mk 1. I'd started to become a little uneasy about it, and was thinking of showing 2Patz instead, but 2Patz wasn't ready yet. It wasn't the time to say, though. No point broadcasting my psychological issues.

‘When is it?' I asked. ‘The brochure doesn't give the dates for the regional heats.'

‘December the fifteenth,' she said.

‘But that's only six weeks away,' I cried.

‘Don't worry,' she said, ‘you'll be fine. That gives you plenty of time to practise.'

‘What should I be practising?' I asked.

‘Simple patterns, she said. ‘Small things. It'll be a scarf, or a beanie or something. It's about getting your knits nice and tight.'

‘So you don't know what the pattern will be?' I asked. ‘What exactly I'll be knitting at the event?'

She shook her head. ‘Oh no, that's a very closely guarded secret. You won't know until half an hour before the event itself, but it's unlikely to be anything unusual.'

‘Hope it doesn't involve stranded colourwork,' I said nervously. ‘I have a mental block about stranded colourwork.'

‘Don't worry about it,' she said, laughing. ‘You'll be fine.'

Don't worry about it? She's told me not to worry about it? She clearly doesn't know me at all.

I mentioned it to Natasha when she arrived.

‘That's fantastic news, Ben,' she said, giving me a massive hug. Natasha is quite a touchy-feely sort of person. She often touches me on the shoulder or puts an arm around me. I think she sees me like a little brother. ‘I'll definitely come along to watch, if that's OK?'

‘Yeah, I'd love that,' I said. After all, no one else would be there. Maybe Mum, if she was around. God knows what I'm going to tell Dad. December 15
^th
is a Sunday, maybe I'll tell him I'm going to church.

He'll take that better than the knitting.

Stopped off at Pullinger's after school to collect some wool and had a chat with Natasha while I was there. It's good to have someone to talk to about knitting. I told her I was going to try the Ocean Spray sweater.

‘Good for you,' she said, impressed. ‘I've been hearing about that. You like a challenge, I'll say that for you.'

‘Always up for a challenge,' I replied, with feeling.

‘Are we talking about knitting here?' she asked, ‘Or have we moved on to your love life?'

‘I've given up on love,' I said. ‘I'm never going to get the girl. Every time I get close some cruel twist of fate denies me. I'm like that squirrel thing in
Ice Age
, forever chasing that damn acorn, never quite managing to catch it.'

‘I think you'll get the girl, Ben,' Natasha said. ‘I don't think you realise just how special you are.'

‘Not sure everyone agrees,' I said.

‘Fancy someone out of your league, do you?'

‘Possibly.' I laughed, blushing.

‘Megan?'

‘Well, her too, but there is someone else I like. An older woman.'

‘Really?' Natasha said, playing with her hair. ‘Anyone I know?'

‘That's classified,' I said, turning a bright red. What was with all the questions?

‘Well, I apologise,' she said, winking. ‘Let's go and look at some yarn.'

I got some lovely goats' wool, dark grey, treated to smooth the fibres. I loved the feel of it and kept slipping my hand inside the paper bag I carried it in to stroke it on my way to Mrs Frensham's.

There's definitely something wrong with me.

I'm in a quandary. A moral dilemma. I was listening to
Knitwits!
this morning on my way to school and they started talking about illegal pattern downloading. Apparently it's a huge issue in the States. There are pirate knitting sites where you can go and download pretty much anything you want, either the original pattern itself, or a knock-off. There's a collective called OpenSource Patterns who think everything should be free and they mess about with other people's designs and add things, or adjust them. It's a real grey area, morally. The worst thing was, the
Knitwits!
girls mentioned the Ocean Spray pattern and also the site where I'd downloaded it!

‘I'm telling you, this sort of thing is destroying the knitting industry in this country,' Marie said, going a bit over the top, I thought.

‘It's theft,' Alana said. ‘Pure and simple. Would you steal a car? No. Would you steal a sandwich? No.'

‘Would you steal a hot dog?' Marie asked.

‘No  … ' Alana said. ‘I –'

‘Would you steal a bag of potato chips?' Marie asked.

‘No, I thin—'

‘Would you steal bacon?'

‘That's enough examples,' Alana said. ‘The point is, people spend time and effort creating these things and they deserve to be rewarded.'

Well, of course, how could I disagree with that? When I got home after school I deleted the pattern from my hard drive. But now what? I don't have enough money to download it legally. I've bought all this wool.

I am a certifiable muppet.

‘  …  But how can you fancy Craig Revel Horwood?' Dad was saying to Mum in disgust as I sneaked past the sitting-room and went up the stairs. Usually I'd join them for
Strictly
, but I've lost interest in telly lately. All I want to do is knit.

I'd been over at Joz's place all day playing Xbox until the knitting cold turkey drove me back home again. I crept in this time, and tiptoed down the hall, hoping for an hour or two to work on the sweater before anyone realised I was home.

Here's my plan to deal with the lack of a pattern for the Ocean Spray. I've decided to knit it anyway, without a pattern. Just from memory. I think it's a good mental exercise, it'll help me learn how to hold the idea of a garment in my head and just knit it, without constantly checking the next line. It's sort of ripping off the design, but they don't have a copyright on grey jumpers with cabling, do they?

I'll make sure I don't get too close to the Ocean Spray design; I'll make it my own, that way I won't be breaching copyright.

Have I mentioned before how disgusting my dad is? He's gruesome all the time, but especially bad when Mum's not around. Even if I have mentioned it I'm sure I can't have got across the totality of it all. Especially as he seems to have a new revolting habit each week. Last time it was constant burping. Not loud, open-mouthed belches like a normal disgusting person. He makes a pretence of being polite by doing them with his mouth closed so that his cheeks blow out like a frog's dewlap. Then he slowly lets the burpy air out of the side of his mouth in a slow hiss before saying ‘excuse me'.

This week though, is even worse. He's been obsessively cleaning his ears with a metal skewer. He says he likes the sensation of the metal scratching against his inner ear.

‘I have an itch,' he said one day at breakfast. ‘A terrible, maddening itch. This is the only thing that works.'

‘You're like a Roald Dahl character,' I said. ‘Seeing your GP is out of the question, I suppose?' Molly was staring at him as if he was a creature from outer space. When even Molly notices something is out of the ordinary there's a serious problem, Houston.

‘Dr Gilhooly?' he spat. ‘She'll just tell me to use cotton tips.'

‘Or maybe she might prescribe some appropriate medicine? You probably have an infection.'

He ignored me, sighing with pleasure as he worked the skewer around.

I went off to be sick.

I love my dad, but he is getting more repulsive every day.

I've now cleared an area in Mrs F's shed a couple of metres squared, or cubed, I suppose. I've uncovered an old wooden chair so I can sit in there, out of the rain, listening to Radio 4 on my phone, or maybe a knitting podcast on my iPod while I sort through the papers and assorted junk.

I'd just finished a big pile of papers yesterday, which were mostly old tax returns. But then I found a manila folder full of letters which looked like they might be personal, so I put them aside. The pile of papers had been squashing an old cardboard box, which I opened. You know what I found?

Knitting things. Balls of yarn, a stack of old yellowing knitting patterns, slightly nibbled by mice, and about 60 knitting needles. Not cheap knitting needles either. I picked the box up and sat with it on the chair, rummaging through in peaceful silence.

So Mrs Frensham was a knitter too. Or had been. No active knitter would have abandoned needles of this quality.

After a while Mrs Frensham came out with a cup of tea. I showed her the letters, which she nodded at and snatched out of my hand. Then I showed her the contents of the knitting box. When she saw it her shoulders sagged a little and she looked deflated.

‘Everything OK?' I asked, wondering if the sight of the knitting things had brought back some unwelcome memories.

‘I'm fine,' she said, a little snappish. ‘Why wouldn't I be?'

I decided not to push it. But, ‘What should I do with these?' I asked, indicating the box.

‘Chuck them,' she said. ‘They're worthless.'

‘They're not, though,' I said. ‘I mean, the yarn is too old, of course, and the patterns are out-of-date, but these are KnitPro acrylic needles. And these ones are Pony brand, they're quality.'

She eyed me curiously. ‘What's wrong with you, boy? Had a knock on the head, have you? How is it you know so much about knitting?'

I thought it over quickly, what harm could it do to tell her? She didn't know any of my friends and if she was ever in a room with any of them she'd clobber them with a giant lollipop before they had a chance to raise the subject of my hobbies.

‘I like to knit,' I said firmly. ‘I'm taking a class, every Thursday, down at the college.'

‘A knitting hoodie?' she said. ‘Now I've heard everything.'

‘I hardly ever wear a hoodie,' I said, exasperated.

‘You take the needles then, if you want them,' she said, turning to go.

‘You don't want them for yourself?' I called after her.

She spun, looking cross.

‘What would I want with some silly old needles?' she growled. ‘Knitting's for girls.' And with that parting dig, Mrs F stomped off up back to the house.

Bristling a little bit, I carefully replaced the knitting gear in the box. I wasn't that bothered by her insult, but I felt bad taking something which seemed to have a history, nor could I bear to throw away those needles.

‘Graham,' Daisy sighed breathlessly. ‘I've not seen one that big before.'

I smiled ruthlessly and put the egg whisk down.

‘I'm saving that for later,' I said to Daisy, where she lay on the snooker table. She groaned in frustrated impatience. Her large chest heaved angrily at me. She needed something, and fast.

I quickly walked towards her and checked the silk scarves were still holding her tight.

‘Kiss me,' she moaned. I kept her waiting a bit longer as I chalked my cue. Then I decided it was time to pot the pink.

I'm not really sure what ‘the author' is trying to say here. He might be trying to approach this from a feminist perspective but I'm not too clear about the snooker table metaphor. Does Daisy's position atop the table represent her elevated place in society? Is Graham chalking a real cue? Is this a post-modern reference to the works of Camus? I guess I'll have to read on to find out.

At some point, I suppose I'll have to tell Dad my secret. He's not going to like it, especially the fact that I've been lying to him for so long, but this can't go on. Tonight was the closest I've come to being caught red-handed. I was sitting on my bed, needles in hand, yarn everywhere and deeply engrossed in the sweater. The cabling is quite complex and really, I wish I'd picked something simpler, or put my hand in my pocket and paid for the pattern. Anyway, the bit I was doing involved using needles of three different sizes. I was getting more and more frustrated, especially as I knew I should be studying for Maths.

Then I lost a needle. A US size 3.5. It's one of my favourites and I just couldn't find it anywhere.

‘I just had you a minute ago!' I said, looking under my bed and lifting the duvet.

‘Who did you have a minute ago?' Dad asked, walking into the room behind me, and nearly giving me a heart attack. I quickly dropped the duvet over the cardigan on the bed.

‘You got a girl in here?' he asked, laughing.

‘Lost my  …  protractor,' I gibbered, but he wasn't listening. He was looking past my left ear. I turned to see what he was looking at, but it was just a poster of the periodic table. I turned back.

‘Huh?'

‘What's that behind your ear?' he asked.

He reached out a hand and grabbed hold of the US size 3.5 knitting needle I'd tucked behind my ear earlier. That's where it went.

‘What's this, Ben?' he asked.

‘No idea,' I said weakly.

‘It's a knitting needle,' he said, stating the bleeding obvious as usual. He looked nonplussed.

‘I think it might be one of Mrs Frensham's old needles,' I said. ‘She was throwing it out.'

‘So you took it off her hands?' he said. ‘What for?'

‘I thought it might be useful as a  … '

Dad's eyes were boring into me. I had never seen him look quite so concerned about anything.

‘ …  As a flagpole for my ziggurat,' I finished.

‘A flagpole?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do ziggurats have flagpoles?'

‘Well, I had to Google that.'

‘And?'

‘Turns out they didn't.'

‘Oh.'

‘No flags.'

‘I see.' He inspected the needle carefully, then looked up at me. ‘So you don't need it?' he asked.

‘No!' I snorted. ‘Why would I want a knitting needle?'

He nodded. ‘Mind if I take it?'

‘Um  …  suuure,' I said, quite pleasantly, considering.

It's only my favourite needle. US sizes in nickel are hard enough to get at the best of times but that's a quality product. An Addi brand. Practically irreplaceable. But right there in my bedroom, in front of me, Dad jammed the pointed end of my Addi Turbo nickel size 3.5 into his manky old ear and began grinding it about.

‘Ohhhh, yes,' he groaned. ‘This is perfect.'

‘Great,' I said, trying not to gag. ‘Glad to help.'

Dad finished grinding and inspected the end of the needle with a satisfied smile.

Gross. It will need sterilisation now. If I ever manage to get it back.