Boys Don't Knit (14 page)

‘I have a secret,' Daisy said. She was looking upset. Like she did whenever I went away from her.

‘I know all your secrets,' I said, downing the glass of expensive vodka I'd just poured and reaching for the bottle again. ‘You can't hide anything from me.'

I walked to the window and stared out at the Beijing skyline. In the reflection of the glass I noticed she wore nothing but the silk negligee I'd given her for her 22
^nd
birthday. I couldn't bear to look at her. I couldn't allow her to win me over with her soft, porcelain skin.

‘You're angry,' she said.

‘Yes,' I agreed.

‘Is this because you found me in bed with your lawyer?'

‘No.'

‘Your accountant?'

‘No.'

‘The estate agent?'

‘I was angry about him, yes. He is my brother, after all,' I said. ‘But, Daisy, don't you understand? Really?'

‘No, Graham,' she said. ‘I really don't.'

‘Then it's over, Daisy,' I said. ‘I'm flying to New York tonight. And I'm not coming back.'

What a cliffhanger! Joz says he's not giving me any more until after Christmas. I'm on tenterhooks. I'm not sure I entirely understand what Graham's problem is, as it happens, and am very much in Camp Daisy at present. He's usually remarkably understanding about her affairs so what could she have done this time to make him decide to leave?

Tomorrow night's the regional heats of the All-UK Knitting Championship. (AUKKC.) Dad's going to watch Hampton play in Basingstoke and won't be back till late. I can make my own way there and back. Dad got sick of me moaning about not having a bike and brought it back from the shop yesterday with a new chain and the gears reset. I'm delighted about that, but when he does nice things like that it all just adds to the sense of guilt I feel about lying to him. I'm going to have to tell him sooner or later. Aren't I? But part of me thinks that if I get knocked out in the first round, then maybe I won't have to? I don't know. I've got too much to worry about at the moment. Lloyd Manning tripped me on the stairs today and I fell against Yasmin Tench and accidentally touched her boob and she screamed and it all turned out to be my fault, of course, and writs were issued and official statements had to be made and witnesses were taken into police protection. I hate Lloyd Manning. I won't say that all my problems would be solved if he had the top of his head taken off and the insides scooped out and eaten by badgers, but one of my problems would be solved and I'm sure the badgers would appreciate the protein, however scant.

Bit worried about what the pattern's going to be tomorrow. What if it is stranded colour? I know there's no reason I shouldn't be able to do it. I just have this irrational fear of stranded colour. I tried to talk to Natasha about it, but she doesn't understand. Knitting's like that. Sometimes you just get a bad feeling about something. Or maybe it's just me.

Didn't have time to write last night. I got back very late. Dad was still out, which we were pleased about. Mum is still going along with our subterfuge, but she's giving stronger hints that it might be time to tell Dad about the knitting.

Anyway, the Regionals. I'd expected a few losers standing around yawning at the Arts Centre venue, which is huge. But it was packed. I suddenly realised I was in at the deep end when I arrived. And I immediately wanted to go home. But I'd come too far to back out now, so I stayed. There were two categories: Junior Knitting and Senior Knitting, and man those SKs are scary – a couple of them were actually knitting and making small talk with the public at the same time. Now I like a good natter when I'm working on something simple and repetitive, but these ladies were doing complex weaves, cabling, experimental selvages, all the while carrying on proper conversations. When I'm doing anything remotely complicated I have to stop talking immediately. I go into a trance and my tongue pokes out.

There was a small knitting fair going on at the same time and there were stands staffed by fabric companies, yarn-makers, machine designers and so on. There was even a pen with four very attractive goats. Not to mention the angora rabbits, in runs. There were workshops, lectures and seminars.

This is so cool, I thought, wandering about, before realising that perhaps ‘cool' wasn't the most appropriate term.

In fact, ‘not cool in any way' might have been more accurate but I didn't care. I was in my element and amongst like-minded people.

I was standing, gazing in awe around me, when my eyes fell on a sight that struck terror into my heart.

Megan Hooper.

Maybe it was inevitable that she'd find out eventually. She was standing with her mum as I approached the room where the competition was to take place. She looked up and saw me and I realised there was no escape. Oh well, I thought. It's not as if it was ever going to happen between us, anyway. At least now I could tell myself that it was her prejudice against knitting that put the kibosh on it, and not the fact that I was so hopeless with girls.

‘Ben? Hi,' Megan said, blinking in surprise.

‘Oh hi, Megan,' I replied.

‘What are you doing here?' she asked. Over her shoulder Mrs Hooper was making ‘I'm sorry' faces at me. I shrugged.

‘I'm here to knit,' I said.

Megan laughed. ‘Funny,' she said. ‘But really, why are you here?'

I looked her in the eye. Time to be a man. ‘I'm really here to knit, Megan. I've been taking your mum's class for the last few months. I'm in the junior category.'

There was a long pause during which my life flashed before me. Then I watched her face closely. She has lovely eyes, does Megan. Green with hints of hazel. What could I see in those eyes? Shock? maybe a touch of betrayal?

‘That's b-brilliant!' she said eventually. ‘Erm, it's not  …  I mean, you don't normally see  …  many boys knitting.'

‘Some of the world's most successful knitters are men,' Mrs Hooper pointed out.

‘Well, good luck, Ben,' Megan said, straight-faced. ‘I'll be cheering for you.'

Was she mocking me? I couldn't tell.

‘There's no cheering allowed,' Mrs Hooper said. ‘They need to concentrate.'

‘I'll be cheering on the inside,' Megan said.

‘Megan, I need to borrow Ben for a moment?' Mrs Hooper told her daughter, leading me away a bit more forcefully than necessary.

As I was dragged off I felt regretful. I'd missed my chance with Megan for good. If only I'd been a bit more impulsive. I should have just grabbed her arm and said in a gravelly voice, ‘Look, Megan Hooper. You're a woman, I'm a man. Let's stop playing games and make this happen.'

But the moment had passed. I'd blown it now. Put the final nail in my own coffin.

‘Sorry about that,' Mrs Hooper whispered. ‘I hadn't expected to be bringing her but she asked if she could come along. She said she needed a break from studying.'

‘Don't worry about it, Mrs Hooper,' I sighed.

‘Naomi, please.'

‘OK, Naomi. See, I've been thinking it's about time I man-up and start telling people. It's nothing to be ashamed of, after all.'

She shook her head. ‘It really isn't. You have a wonderful talent.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Now, go in there and win this thing,' she said.

‘What's the pattern?' I asked.

‘Ah, yes. About that  … '

‘It's stranded colourwork, isn't it?'

‘Yes, it is.'

Honestly, what's the point of trying to be positive when everything conspires against you?

My competitors in the Junior Category of the All UK Knitting Championship (Hampshire Regional Heat) were an odd-looking bunch. All girls, as you'd expect. They all looked a lot older than me which I was suspicious about until Mrs Hooper showed me the eligibility criteria and I realised the junior category went up to age twenty-three.

They were quite sullen too. I'm used to chatting while I knit, and knitting while I chat. I tried to kick off a conversation as we all took our seats.

‘First time?' I asked the girl sat behind me. She was thin and angular, with sharp glasses and dry skin.

‘No,' she said.

‘This is my first time,' I said, to the room at large. One girl gave me a brief smile but most just ignored me. I got the impression chatting to the other contestants was bad form. I suppose it's like the Wimbledon final, you don't get Roger Federer asking Rafael Nadal where he has his hair cut moments before the start.

I turned back to my desk and inspected the kit. There were a selection of high-quality needles and hooks. There were six green balls of yarn, and six red, all different weights.

A dumpy lady wearing a name badge I couldn't read stood up in front and held up a sheaf of papers.

‘These are the patterns,' she called out, causing a frisson of murmured excitement from the other contestants.

‘Ooh,' I said, joining in.

She walked down the aisles between the desks, slapping a sheet on each, face down.

‘Please turn over your patterns  …  now!' the dumpy lady sang out.

I flipped mine over and saw, with an inward groan, that it was for a neck-warmer. Simple enough but with a rose design in it. Stranded colourwork in the round. My worst fears had been realised. Correction, it could have been worse. It could have been a tea cosy.

I looked up to see the angular girl eyeing me carefully; she'd seen the look of disappointment on my face.

‘I can handle stranded colourwork,' I told her. ‘I can handle knitting in the round. Just not together, you know? I find it hard to keep everything in my head at once, it bothers me.'

She nodded briefly and turned back to inspecting her yarns.

‘There is only one place in the National Finals available,' Dumpy went on. ‘So there can only be one winner.'

‘Like
The Hunger Games
,' I whispered to Miss Angular. This time she ignored me completely. OK, I thought to myself. If that's the way you want to play it.

‘OK, contestants,' the Official Lady said once she'd finished. ‘You have ninety minutes to complete as much of the pattern as you can. You don't need to finish it. Some extra marks will be given for completed patterns, but more important are neatness, precision and technique. Invigilators will be walking around inspecting your technique as you work.'

She checked her watch, counting down the seconds until 7.30pm. I looked up at the viewing gallery and saw Mrs Hooper and Megan. Mrs Hooper gave me the thumbs-up, Megan was looking off into the distance, apparently bored already. Then I saw Natasha and Amelia threading their way along the aisle to sit next to the Hoopers. Natasha sat, saw me looking and waved. I smiled weakly back, utterly nauseated.

‘Contestants, your time starts now,' the Official Lady said. There was a mass clicking as the other contestants picked up their needles of choice and began work immediately. I took a deep breath, tried to clear my head and picked up two needles of my own.

The reason I don't like stranded colour when knitting in the round is that I like to picture the whole garment in my head, the whole time. I like to know where everything is, where it was and where it will be. I have to think in 3D, otherwise I get confused and my stitches start to slip. Other people I know can concentrate on one thing at a time. Complete that stitch, that purl, that row, then think about what to do next. I don't think like that. It's all got to be there before I start. Then the process itself becomes almost automatic.

So for me leaping right into the pattern, like the others had, wasn't the plan. I had to focus, get the job completed in my head first, then keep it there while my fingers did the rest. I must have sat there, eyes closed, visualising for four or five minutes. I could hear people whispering in the gallery, the outside hubbub of noise from the show, the soft bleating of goats. I blocked all this from my mind and thought about nothing but the pattern.

Sixty rows, 50 columns, 3,000 stitches, 798 red, the rest green. Knitting in the round, locked into place, stranded colours, locked into place. Overall garment shape, size, locked into place. Estimated time of completion – 77 minutes.

I opened my eyes and started to knit.

I cut out all the noise, all the distractions. I didn't care about school, or Lloyd Manning, or my friends, or Megan, or Mrs Frensham or anything; the only thing I was thinking about was that pattern.

I knitted, and I purled and I knitted some more. The needles were perfect, the yarn was silky smooth and unravelled easily. I completed the first ring without a dropped stitch, then the second and the third. I didn't look at the clock, I just kept going. My fingers flicked and twisted, the needles flew, the neck-warmer started to take shape. The loops were the perfect size, not too loose so as to let warm air escape, not so tight that the fabric would be too thin.

It was going well. Very well.

So well, in fact, that something just had to go wrong. I'd completed 35 rows and was ready to bring in the different colour when suddenly there was a huge crash to my left. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Miss Angular had knocked a stack of knitting needles off her desk onto the floor.

‘Sorry,' she mouthed.

‘Is everything OK?' the Official Lady asked, walking over to help collect the needles. I nodded and gave her the thumbs-up.

‘It's OK,' I mouthed back to Miss Angular. But as I did, I noticed something. Suddenly she was smiling. Just a hint of a smile. A sly smile. The sort of smile people give when they've just done something mischievous.

She'd dropped the needles on purpose! To break my concentration. The minx! I stole a quick glance at her neck-warmer. It was good, nice loops, strong weft. But she'd only completed 20 or so rows. Another survey of the other contestants told me that she was, in fact, ahead of most of them, except me. I was well ahead. Or had been until the crash of needles dropping broke my concentration. Now everyone else was furiously knitting, catching me up.

I was stung by this treachery. I couldn't bring myself to look up at Megan. I had to get back into the Knitzone. Concentrate, Ben. Concentrate.

It took me longer this time. The mental image I had in my head had been deleted. I had to re-construct it. But as I was a third of the way through, it was more difficult. I was also worried that Miss Angular might try the trick again. I couldn't let her beat me, not now. I hadn't cared so much about winning beforehand, I just didn't want to embarrass myself. Now though, things were different. She'd laid down the challenge and I wasn't going to back down.

I closed my eyes, took another deep breath and then suddenly, with a little ping, the image was back. The area I'd done was filled in bold, the bits still to do greyed out. I just had to complete this row, then I'd bring the next colour in.

I resumed knitting. Not so fast this time, not so smooth. I dropped a stitch here and there. But I was determined. The image remained in my head, spinning slowly, the colours filling in as I carried on. The first flash of red appeared, then started to grow. Another row completed, then another, then three more.

Then Miss Angular started coughing. Loudly. Clearly faked.

‘Could I have some water please?' she croaked loudly. I stared straight ahead, trying to shut her out, but my hands slowed and I lost the thread again. I stopped and waited for her fit to pass.

As the Official Lady walked off, after delivering the water, my nemesis turned to look at me. She had a fierce glint in her eye. Though, in fairness, that could have been the overhead lights reflecting off her glasses.

‘You're right, this is like
The Hunger Games
. And you can call me Katniss,' she said sarcastically. The she returned to her knitting. She'd sped up, I saw, or maybe I'd slowed down. And she was now just a few rows behind me. I swallowed, my mouth dry, wishing I had some of her water.

Once more, I closed my eyes and tried to bring back the image. I got it back, but again, the distraction had knocked my confidence. Damaged my focus. I dropped more stitches. One row was so bad I had to frog the lot. Damn her. Damn her!

When time was up, I hadn't finished. I was sure I could have completed the garment in the time had I not been interrupted twice. An invigilator took my work, saying nothing. She attached a tag to it with my name on, then did the same for Evil Miss Angular. I refused to look at her, I was so angry.

‘The judging process will take half an hour,' the Official Lady called out. ‘Please do take a look around the fair while you wait. There are refreshments available at the bar or café. We'll see you back here at 9.00pm.'

I waited for my nemesis to leave before standing and shuffling out into the main hall, where the Hoopers and my knit class pals were waiting.