Divas Don't Knit (29 page)

I gather up bottles of bath stuff and candles in M&S for Connie and Lulu, along with smaller versions for the boys’ teachers, and some spares for whichever bastard I haven’t thought of who turns up with an unexpected gift, and some Christmas pants for Vin, because we always get each other really crap presents, before I head down to the food hall, where for some reason best known to middle management they’ve decided to put all the trolleys outside the main doors, in the freezing cold, so you have to leave whatever shopping you’ve got in your arms in a pile on the floor, as lots of other people seem to be doing, or else take it outside with you and run the risk of being arrested for
shoplifting. So that’s all very helpful. I finally track down some chunky-looking marmalade in a vaguely familiar jar. I’m balancing two baskets on one arm, which leave big red marks, so I decide not to do any other food shopping as my personal protest about the new trolley relocation policy. I bet that’ll have Head Office rocking in their seats. But as Tesco keep telling us, every little helps, and maybe next time someone might join up the dots before customers are forced to abandon their shopping in little piles all over the bloody food hall. Christ, I think I might be developing shopping rage.

I still can’t work out what to get for Nick’s parents, Elizabeth and Gerald, who we’ve only actually managed to see twice since the funeral, which is making me feel rather guilty. The last time we saw them was when the headstone was ready, which Elizabeth insisted on organising, although she did let me pay for it, and I’m still not sure about that gold lettering on black marble. It all looked a bit too pompous somehow, and she forgot to put the boys’ names on, even though I asked her to, and I know he would have wanted their names, not just Beloved Husband and Father. Oh God, I think I’d better sit down somewhere for a minute and pull myself together.

I look at my list while I sit in Starbucks, practically inhaling a mince pie and a caramel macchiato and wondering exactly what it was I ever did to Elizabeth to make her treat me like someone who’s just left muddy footprints all over her cream carpet, which I’ve never actually done, although Jack did have a rather spectacular near miss with a homemade jam tart the last time we were there, but I don’t think she saw. I invited them over to lunch to see the new house and the shop when we first moved in, but they were too busy with golf things, and I’ve been putting off calling her for a while because she only wants to talk about Nick, and why I won’t reconsider moving again and sending the boys to Nick’s old prep school; although how she thinks I’d pay for that is anybody’s guess. But we’ve fixed
up a date for them all to come for lunch in January, although God alone knows what they’ll make of the house. So that’s something else to look forward to.

And then there’s Nick’s brother James, and his wife Fiona, who she’s always preferred; they live nearby and belong to the same golf club, and Fiona’s in the same branch of the WI as her. They’re always busy making things for the competitions; a matchbox full of as many items as possible, or a decorated thimble, that kind of thing, and the best ones get points each month and there’s a silver cup at the end of the year and Elizabeth’s won it, twice. I tried to show an interest at first, but I think I just annoyed her.

I’m pretty sure none of them will want a Goat for Peace for Christmas. Elizabeth collects expensive china figurines of the non-rabbit variety, and I’m quite tempted to get her a packet of Pledge dusters and some glue, ready for our next visit, but in the end I settle for a basket of herbs and things in jars from Carluccio’s, which she’ll hate, but I’m past caring, and a boxed set of gourmet oils for James and Fiona, ditto, and Make Your Own Bead Bracelet kits for their girls, Elizabeth and Charlotte, which will mean beads all over Fiona’s polished wood floors, as a sort of hidden bonus. I’ll post them all tomorrow, along with the cards the boys made at the weekend, with extra glitter for added sparkle.

I’ve just got Mum and Dad left now, who are tricky to buy presents for because Mum always says she doesn’t want anything because Christmas is such a con and she’d rather we didn’t bother. But then she sulks if we don’t get her anything, so I go for some of her favourite Body Shop stuff from the boys, and a book on Renaissance painters from me, and a big box of chocolate gingers for Dad, because they’re his favourite and nobody else likes them so he won’t have to share. I’ve got him some daft socks which play Merry Christmas from the boys, which he’ll love, so I think I’m
done. I’m carrying so many carrier bags they’re cutting off the circulation in my fingers.

Gran and Reg are still in the café, but they’ve been making little forays out to get more stocking-fillers for the boys, and a large box of biscuits for the Bowls Club.

‘All done, dear?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Good. Let’s have another pot of tea, shall we? You look done in.’

‘I’ll go, Mary.’ Reg picks up the cups and goes back over to the counter.

‘I nipped into M&S earlier and got us some custard tarts. We’ll have to be careful though, because I don’t think they like you eating things that they haven’t sold you. Mind you, the price they charge for tea you’d think they’d be used to it by now. And I got you this.’

She hands me a little plastic wallet with two tiny bottles of pink nail varnish inside.

‘How lovely. Thanks, Gran.’

‘There’s a nail file and everything. I thought you could do them tonight, after the boys are asleep. You always loved me doing your nails when you were little.’

I kiss her, and she smiles.

‘I wonder how Betty’s getting on? She was really looking forward to it, you know. She’s got them a bag of sweets each – she was showing me yesterday. Just a few little things, mind. I told her you don’t like them spoiling their tea. So you like the nail polish, do you? I can change it if you don’t like the colour.’

‘It’s a lovely colour.’

‘You’re doing too much. You need to slow down a bit.’

‘I know, Gran, but there’s so much to do.’

‘Well remember, pet, Rome wasn’t built in a day.’

‘Or Venice?’

She frowns. ‘I know I shouldn’t say it, but your mother can
be such a trial sometimes. I’m so glad I’m going on my cruise, I really am. Here, have a custard tart.’

It’s the end-of-term Assembly at school today, and I’ve got the Stitch and Bitch group tonight, so I’m sitting upstairs in the shop, putting the final touches to the flower brooches I’ve made as presents for everyone, before I wrap them up in tissue paper. I took Gran and Reg to Gatwick yesterday, and only just made it back to school in time to collect the boys, so I’m still feeling pretty knackered, and it’s pelting down with rain, which I hope doesn’t mean there are storms out at sea. They were both so excited, and Reg was already wearing his sailor’s cap and his blazer, so I’m really hoping he hasn’t had to swap it for a sou’wester.

Elsie’s just brought me a mince pie from the baker’s. She seems very chirpy at the moment, and she loved her teapot and milk jug. I’m still having the occasional bicker with her when she arranges new stock so it looks like someone colour blind has thrown things on the shelves, and she never writes down telephone messages, so I have to call everyone back and then get stuck for ages with salespeople from the bank asking me how my account is functioning, and did I know I could take out a loan on the shop and have the cash in my hand by teatime, with a free Parker pen, if I could just answer three questions, the first of which is ‘Are you a total idiot?’ But apart from that we seem to have got past the constant tutting stage, and we’re into something much more friendly, which is great. She still wants to put up the photos of me and Grace; she was busy showing them to Martin at the weekend, who seemed very impressed, but I haven’t seen him since because he’s got some crisis job on at work and they’re putting him up in a hotel.

I’m knitting the last flower for Tina, in pink cotton with a
mohair centre, and the smell of the wood smoke and the feel of the wool is making me feel much calmer. I think I’ll put another log on the fire and finish this, and then I’ll check what else needs doing.

Fuck. Double fuck. It’s half past one and I’ve just woken up. Elsie said she didn’t like to wake me because I looked so peaceful, which was sweet of her, obviously, but means I’m in serious danger of being late for the bloody Assembly. I race down the stairs and then race back up again to get my bag, and by the time I get to school I’m feeling as if I’ve been entered into one of those half-marathons as a surprise, like one of those people who wear amusing outfits and take nine hours to complete the course. I’m wearing my new boots and my green corduroy skirt with my tweed jacket because I wanted to look a bit smarter than usual, but now I wish I’d gone for something I could bloody run in.

The hall’s already packed but Connie’s saved me a seat next to her and Mark, so I sit down, rather red-faced, and Annabel Morgan turns round and gives me an especially unimpressed kind of look. Cow.

Everyone’s chatting and smiling apart from her group at the front, who are all stony-faced because this year Mr O’Brien has decided against the traditional Nativity play, which the PTA usually help organise. According to Jane Johnson, who knows the school secretary, he’s said it takes up too much time, and doesn’t really benefit the kids, especially those who don’t get to be Mary and Joseph, so instead each class will have a moment on stage to share what they’d been doing this term. And while this seems extremely sensible to most of us, with the added bonus that nobody has to stay up until midnight making a sodding sheep costume, Annabel’s completely furious about it. She’d probably already had her sheep costume professionally made.

Mr O’Brien comes in and everyone quietens down.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman, and thank you for joining us for our end-of-term Assembly.’

He asks us to remember not to stand up to take photographs, because it puts the children off, and Connie nudges me, because we’ve heard about last year’s summer concert when Mr Dale fell over and fractured his elbow while trying to walk backwards while he was videoing his daughter’s solo. Fireman Graham had to administer first aid out in the corridor until the ambulance came, and Mrs Nelson had to play a loud medley of her favourite show tunes to cover up the sound of Mr Dale swearing.

The Reception class climb up the steps onto the stage, holding pictures of Christmas trees covered in tinsel, and what I think are paintings of reindeer, only it’s quite hard to tell because some of them are more figurative than others. They’re looking nervous and very small, apart from one girl who steps forwards and starts belting out Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer before the piano has even started, which gives the rest of her classmates a sudden jolt of recognition, but they rally, and despite singing at a variety of different tempos, and to slightly different tunes, they manage to meet up by the end, and we all clap.

Then Archie’s class troop in and my stomach does that thing it always does when you see one of your offspring standing on a stage in front of a live audience. They’re holding papier-mâché models of stars, which are all roughly the same size and decorated in shiny silver paper, apart from Harry Morgan’s, which is much more professional-looking and twice the size of all the others; if he could find a plug it would probably start revolving and playing a tune. I bet Annabel was in the classroom ‘helping’ on the day they made them, unless she broke in at midnight to remodel it for him.

They line up on the stage, and Nelly drops her star, which rolls off the edge of the stage and drops onto the floor. There’s
a silence, and Connie and Mark both lean forward; Connie’s holding Mark’s hand really tightly, but just when I think it’s all going to end in tears Archie does a rather spectacular jump off the stage, lands in a little heap, picks himself up and hands Nelly her star, and then runs round to the side of the stage and climbs back up the stairs again. He takes his place next to Nelly in the line-up, and she turns to him with such gratitude on her face you can almost hear the entire audience smiling. Connie reaches for my hand. So now all three of us are holding hands and sniffing.

Mrs Berry announces that they’re going to sing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star for us. It was written by Jane Taylor in 1806, which is a very long time ago, but first the class would like to tell us some interesting facts about stars, and then assorted small people tell us that stars are born in big clouds of gas, and there are over seven thousand stars that you can see in the sky without a telescope, and they were named after animals and gods, and then Seth Johnson, who’s very clever, steps forward. I can see Jane stiffen, willing him to get his line right.

‘Stars twinkle because air is never still, so when light goes through the air on its way to us on Earth it looks like it’s twinkling.’

He seems to understand what he’s talking about, which is more than I can say for most of the audience, me included; it’s all very impressive for someone who’s only six. Then the piano starts up and they’re off. The first group manage their verse, more or less together, and it’s all going well when Archie and Nelly step forward in their group, ready for their verse. This is the bit I’ve been really worried about, because it’s fifty-fifty whether Archie will be singing the official version, or going for Jack’s alternative, Winkle, Winkle, Little Bra. This reduces them both to complete hysterics every single time they try to sing it, which they’ve been doing pretty much every day for weeks now. He stands up
straight and puts his shoulders as far back as he can; which means he’s going to be Singing as Loud as He Can. Oh dear.