Boys Don't Knit (13 page)

Mum's away again, and Dad's struggling a bit without her. We'd run out of dishwasher tablets this morning so he put a mixture of salt, rinse aid and Fairy Liquid in the Zanussi and when I got back from school the kitchen was full of soap bubbles. It's like living with Paddington Bear, sometimes.

Mum's back! She got home tonight, looking exhausted and collapsed into an armchair. Molly came and sat on top of her to watch
Strictly Come Dancing
. Dad offered to cook a celebratory meal for us all; we could hear him clattering away in the kitchen. He popped his head round the door after a bit.

‘Drink?' he asked Mum.

‘Whisky and soda please,' she replied, sighing contentedly.

‘Stiff one?'

‘Just the drink, thanks.'

After we'd sewn all our sides back up again, I asked how her tour had been.

‘Good, mostly,' she said. ‘A bit of an awkward moment in Crewe, when the member of the audience I invited up on stage to help me with a trick turned out to be shit-faced.'

‘What's shit-faced?' Molly asked.

‘Oops,' Mum said. ‘Forgot you were there. It means had a bit too much to drink, petal. Anyway, she's stumbling about all over the place, and everyone's laughing. I managed to get her into the wardrobe, and then when I opened the doors, she'd completely disappeared.'

‘So?' I asked. ‘Isn't that the point?'

‘No, she wasn't supposed to disappear at all. She was supposed to still be in the wardrobe but wearing a different colour dress,' Mum said. ‘It's a very sophisticated trick. It subverts the audience's expectations.'

‘But it was your expectations that were subverted,' I said.

‘Welcome to my world,' she said.

‘So where had she gone?'

‘Not sure. Her husband came and accosted me after the show. She turned up eventually, in the upstairs bar.'

‘Wow, good trick.'

‘If only I knew how I'd done it,' Mum said, face screwed up in concern.

I laughed. It was good to have her back.

‘Have you told him?' she asked me quietly.

‘Eh?'

‘Have you told him about the you-know-what?'

I shook my head and she gave me a look.

‘I will,' I said. ‘I will tell him.'

‘Good.'

After a bit Dad came in, looking worried.

‘Susan,' he said. ‘I've dropped a Toblerone in the stew.'

‘OK, Heston,' Mum said, pushing Molly off and climbing to her feet. ‘Step away from the cooker. I'll fish it out, you go and open some wine.'

What with the zinc in the water, and Dad's cooking, I'm amazed I've made it to seventeen.

Just got back from Mrs Frensham's. Mum's making tea so it's taking for ever, of course. Not that I mind, she cooks proper food. Spag bol tonight, with posh Sainsbury's garlic bread. When Mum's away it's usually just eggs and bacon on toast or sausages and baked beans from a can. British Cassoulet, Dad calls it.

Mrs Frensham was in a funny mood today. She smiled as she let me in, almost as if she was pleased to see me. And when I got out to the shed, I noticed straight away that the knitting box had gone. Had she thrown it away? I wondered. But when she brought the tea out, she didn't go straight back in. She stood for a bit and seemed like she wanted to talk, she was asking me what I'd found today, but didn't really seem to be interested in the answers. I offered her the chair but she shook her head.

‘I'll stand while I'm still able,' she said.

‘OK,' I said, nibbling a Hobnob and watching her suspiciously. I tried to think of suitable topics of conversation. Should I ask after her haemorrhoids?

‘So how long you been knitting then?' she asked eventually.

‘Um  …  a few months,' I told her.

‘You like it, do you?'

I nodded. ‘I actually do, I find it calming.'

‘Yes, it is,' she said. I watched as her heavy features scrunched themselves up into a smile before flopping back.

‘So you used to knit, but not any more?' I asked.

‘I was mad for knitting as a girl,' she said, her face taking on a reflective look. ‘We'd use anything we could get our hands on. We'd knit with string, when we couldn't get wool.'

‘Was it rationed?' I asked.

‘What do you mean rationed?' she shot, snapping out of her reverie. ‘How old do you think I am?'

I shrugged. ‘I dunno. Eighty?'

She stared at me, her jaw sagging a little. ‘I'm sixty-one,' she said. ‘Rationing ended when I was three.'

‘Sorry,' I said, blushing. ‘My eyesight's gone a bit funny since I started knitting  … '

‘I used to knit a lot when my husband was alive,' she went on. ‘First when we were just married, I knitted baby clothes, you know, booties, bonnets, that sort of thing.'

I nodded encouragingly.

‘But the baby never came,' she said.

‘Sorry,' I said awkwardly. Her eyes were beginning to look a little moist.

‘So I knitted for him,' she went on. ‘Scarves, socks, a beanie for winter. He gave me a kiss every time I finished something and told me I was a marvel.'

‘He sounds nice,' I said.

‘He was,' she said. A tear ran down her cheek. Was I expected to hug her? Put a reassuring hand on one of those great shoulders? And it struck me then that this Mrs F, so strong and warrior-like (and a tad violent) on the outside, was scared and lonely and sad on the inside. Maybe all adults are unravelling a bit inside? Like they've dropped a couple of stitches somewhere. And not just adults. I felt a bit unravelled myself sometimes.

‘Wasn't until years later I found out from his sister that he'd always hated woollen clothes,' she said. ‘Couldn't stand the feeling of it against his skin. He liked rayon.'

‘Rayon,' I said, shaking my head sympathetically. ‘
Rayon
.'

‘Yeah,' she replied.

‘But he never told you,' I said. ‘He didn't want to hurt your feelings.'

‘That's right,' she said, nodding. ‘He'd never have hurt a fly.'

‘No,' I said gently.

‘Though he did once shoot a burglar up the arse with an air rifle.'

‘Well, fair enough,' I said.

She stood for a while longer, lost in her memories. I stood awkwardly, waiting, not sure what I was expected to do.

We settled on an exchange of smiles in the end. Then Mrs F picked up the tea mugs, and the biscuits and went back into the house. I can't say it was the most comfortable ten minutes of my life, but I'm glad I was there today when she needed someone to talk to. I'm glad I found the knitting things. I think maybe I didn't completely mess things up today.

Went out to get more wool today for the prototype of 2Patz. Natasha wasn't working in the shop. Another girl was there, which was OK with me. Natasha's great, but she can talk for England and I was in a bit of a hurry to get back and crack on with my practice.

When I got home I made the mistake of coming in through the front door. Dad heard me.

‘Want to come and watch the second half, Ben?' he called as I passed the sitting room. I stopped, groaning inwardly.

‘I'd love to, Dad,' I said, popping my head round the door. ‘It's just I've got loads of homework.' This was true, though I had no intention of doing it.

‘Oh,' he said, sounding disappointed.

‘How are they, er, how are Chelsea getting on?'

‘Two–one down,' he said, ‘but we're getting most of the ball.'

‘Lampard scored our goal, did he?' I asked hopefully.

‘No. Hit the crossbar a couple of times,' Dad said.

‘Oh, never mind. Game of two halves, I'm told.'

‘You're not wrong,' he said, pointing his beer bottle at me. I ducked out then and raced up to my room, anxious to get my hands on those needles.

It's like a drug.

Hang on. Needles? Drugs? How have I not made that connection before?

Embarrassment newsflash! Just had a man-to-man chat with Dad. Mum's been away this weekend and for some reason he's gone all role-reversal. Cleaning everywhere, washing sheets, stacking the dishwasher properly. Not sure what that's all about, but the upshot was, when I got home from school today, Dad called me into the sitting room. He had a very stern look on his face. He doesn't do stern very well, actually. He's about as forbidding as Louis Walsh. Nonetheless, I was suddenly nervous. There was stuff I didn't want him to know about.

‘Please sit down, Ben,' he said. ‘We need to talk.'

What is it about that phrase that can reduce even the bravest person to jelly? If Darth Vader's dad came into his bedroom and said, ‘We need to talk,' poor Darth's twisted heart would skip a beat and his breath would grow even more ragged. What have I done? he'd think. Was it the planet I blew up? Cutting my son's hand off? Did I leave a skid mark in the Death Star bog?

‘I was tidying your room this morning, Ben,' Dad said.

Uh-oh, please don't tell me he's looked under the wardrobe.

‘I found a magazine.'

Just one? Probably not the wardrobe then.

‘This magazine,' he said, holding up the November issue of
Knit!

‘Right,' I said. This was even worse. How was I going to explain
Knit!
?

‘Is there something you're not telling me, Ben?' he asked.

‘What do you mean?' I asked, playing for time.

‘Well, this is clearly not yours,' he said, ‘and your mother doesn't knit. Not any more.'

‘No,' I said. Then suddenly I noticed he had a sly grin on his face.

‘You've had a girl in your room, haven't you?'

‘Um  … '

‘I don't mind, Ben,' he said. ‘Good for you, is what I think. If you only knew the things I used to get up to at your age. But you don't have to go skulking around, you know?'

‘Oh, OK.'

‘Introduce her to me, will you?' he said, nodding encouragingly. ‘To me and your mum. She's not a loony, is she?'

‘I'm not going out with a loony, no,' I replied carefully.

‘Well,' he said, standing up and handing me back the magazine. ‘I look forward to meeting her. Oh, and Ben?'

‘Yes?'

‘Don't screw it up, will you?' He laughed and left the room.

Next week I'll give the magazine to Mrs Frensham. In fact I think I'll keep all my magazines in her shed. The knitting ones, I mean. The others can stay under my wardrobe.

How can it be Wednesday again already? It's always Wednesday. I hate Wednesdays, that's the day Mum and Dad go out. Date Night, they call it. Apparently, it's traditional. I pointed out once that Dad still goes out on Wednesdays even when Mum's not here so how could it be Date Night then, but I was ignored as usual. The main reason I hate it is because I have to make Molly's tea. She's incredibly fussy and if it's not Mum doing the cooking she only eats three things. Sainsbury's apricot shreddies with semi-skimmed milk, tinned sausage and baked beans on toast or chicken goujons with pasta tubes – no sauce.

Problem is, she doesn't like it when I cook these things, even if I make it in exactly the same way Dad does. But on Wednesdays she doesn't have a choice and after a bit of shouting and slamming doors, and duels with pistols and armed sieges she generally ends up eating something. She does this whilst pulling the most revolted faces and gagging every few seconds. It's not very complimentary. Tonight she actually sicked up some half-masticated beans onto the table.

How rude. Not even the angry one off
Masterchef
has ever done that.

After I'd cleaned up the sick, I asked her, as I am required to do by the Ancient Law of the House, if she wanted any yoghurt.

‘No,' she said.

‘No what?' I asked.

‘No way,' she said.

‘No way what?'

‘No way, Jose.'

‘Bath time,' I said, giving up.

Anyway, the kid's in bed now and after half an hour's studying, I'm going to work on 2Patz some more.

It's really, really quiet now. Kind of peaceful. Maybe Wednesdays aren't all bad.