Boys Don't Knit (19 page)

I hadn't forgotten about Joe, and his problem. My idea to help him is taking shape, and it involves knitting.

As I mentioned, Patt3rn had been causing me sleepless nights and I think I've made a breakthrough. I was sat up in my bed for an hour just now fiddling around with it, getting more and more frustrated, until the solution suddenly leaped out at me. I think the main problem was that I was trying to make it unisex, which ended up making it a bit middlesex, if you get my drift. It was then that it clicked.

Of course! There was absolutely no reason I should have to design something to be worn by men and women. Why not keep it simple? Just make something that might appeal only to women? And one woman in particular: my knitting muse, Miss Jessica Swallow.

I lay back on my bed and thought it through. I'd have to make it a little smaller, and not as long. Do you have to leave room for boobs? How big should the boob-room be? Is ‘boob-room' the correct technical term? My knitting muse. Jessica Swallow. I could close my eyes and visualise her body shape quite easily, I found. I remembered the loose-necked top she'd worn to the football. I could visualise the loose-stitched top she'd worn at New Year's. There was a theme developing here. I could almost see Patt3rn on her then and there, why hadn't I thought of this before?

Was this all a bit creepy? Maybe a little. But all great artists have a muse. We creatives are allowed to be slightly sinister. The girls love it.

So the upshot is, I've abandoned Patt3rn, and the new working title of the new design is now Patt.r.n.

Now I'm so excited about it I can't sleep for another reason. I'm going to get down to Pullinger's early tomorrow to pick up some thicker needles and some untreated wool.

Dad's still not back. Mum got a brief text from him to let her know he was still alive but he didn't say where he'd gone.

‘Best to leave him alone for a while,' she said. ‘Giving him a hard time won't do any good. He'll come back when he's ready.'

‘And then what?' I asked.

Towards the end of Geography, just before the bell went for lunch, a note was delivered to our classroom. Mr Grover read it, then looked up at me. My heart lurched. My first thought was something had happened to Dad.

‘See me after class please, Ben,' Mr Grover said. I nodded, my heart thumping.

I couldn't concentrate after that and was thankful when the bell went. I waited for everyone to move out. Megan shot me a curious look as she left and I winked to express a confidence I didn't feel.

‘The Head wants to see you,' Mr Grover said. He didn't elaborate, he's not a man who says more than he needs to.

I made my way up to the office, trying to guess what this might be about. Halfway up the stairs I had to sit and take a few deep breaths. My nerves have been getting worse lately, I'm sure of it. The receptionist Mrs Lucie smiled at me and told me to go straight in.

I knocked and Mrs Tyler called me in. I quite like Mrs Tyler. She always wears tops with complicated fastenings. Lots of buckles, loops and straps, that sort of thing, and I'm never convinced she's done them up properly. She sat behind her big wooden desk, smiling, which made me feel a little better. Then I noticed there was someone else in the room. A thin man in a suit. He looked like an accountant.

‘Thanks for coming, Ben,' Mrs Tyler said. ‘This is Mr Hollis from Virilia.'

‘Oh,' I said as the man stood and stuck out a hand. I shook it, worrying that he'd find my palm a little clammy. ‘You're the people who put in the screens.'

He smiled brightly at this. ‘That's right,' he said. ‘We invest in people.'

Mr Hollis seemed a very neat sort of person. Everything about him spoke of quiet tidiness and organisation. I liked him immediately.

‘Virilia have done a lot more for us than just install screens,' Mrs Tyler said hastily. ‘Have a seat.'

We all sat down and Mrs Tyler started talking about the young entrepreneur award Virilia were sponsoring.

‘We're very keen to find the next Lord Sugar,' Mr Hollis said.

I wasn't entirely sure he was looking in the right place, to be honest. I hate to be disloyal, but I don't think the student body at Hampton Academy is particularly enterprising. Apart from Holly Osman.

‘Great,' I said. ‘Good luck.'

‘This is why I've asked you to come and see me today,' Mrs Tyler went on. ‘It's come to our attention that you've recently established your own small business.'

I froze. My expression must have betrayed my surprise as she continued.

‘Miss Swallow showed me the tank top you knitted for her young man. She says she has more orders for you.'

‘And there's your exciting e-shop as well,' Mr Hollis added.

‘How did you know about that?' I asked slowly.

‘The world wide web is accessible to the wide world, lad,' he pointed out, laughing. ‘I Googled you and that site came up immediately.'

‘That's great news,' I said weakly. ‘Good old Google.'

Mr Hollis leaned across to me and lowered his voice as he spoke, as if imparting some secret wisdom. ‘E-commerce is the future,' he said. ‘The High Street is dead I'm afraid, Ben. Soon all shopping will be done online. You're ahead of the game already.'

I immediately thought of Pullinger's, stubbornly clinging to its apostrophe and capital P. How could you replicate the experience of yarn-browsing online? You can't feel fibre on your laptop, you can't twiddle a needle on an iPad. Nonetheless, I smiled and nodded, as you do when you meet someone so sure they know the future.

‘Anyway, Ben,' Mrs Tyler said. ‘We hoped you might like to enter the Virilia Studentrepreneur Search.'

‘The what, sorry?' I asked.

‘Student Entrepreneur,' Mr Hollis explained carefully. ‘Studentrepreneur for short.'

‘Oh right, that's clever,' I said, wishing I was somewhere else. I didn't like where this was headed.

‘Great publicity for your enterprise,' Mr Hollis said, winking at me.

That was what I was worried about. Trying to sell tank tops to anonymous Americans on the internet was one thing. Displaying my knitting prowess to the entire school, not to mention my family, was something else.

Mrs Tyler seemed to have identified my reluctance. ‘It would mean extra credit, Ben,' she said. ‘And there's a cash prize.'

I raised an eyebrow. I could frankly do with both of those things at the moment.

‘And in my opinion, Ben,' Mr Hollis added, ‘you stand an excellent chance of winning.'

‘Oh really? I asked, flattered.

‘There's not a great deal of competition.'

‘Oh. I see,' I said, slightly deflated. ‘It's just this school then?'

‘All Virilia schools,' Mr Hollis said.

‘How many Virilia schools are there?'

‘Three.'

‘The other two are in special measures,' Mrs Tyler explained. Mr Hollis looked glum at this. I wanted to help him, I really did. He seemed like an OK bloke. And very neat.

‘Can I think about it?' I asked.

‘Think quickly,' Mrs Tyler said.

Dad made contact today. He and Mum had a brief conversation over the phone, I only heard Mum's side, of course.

‘Where are you?'

-

‘Really? Why did you go there?'

-

‘You don't even like fish.'

-

‘Whatever. You know I'm away this weekend in Bristol?'

-

‘No, they cannot go to my mother's. She's more gaga than ever. She thinks my name's Colin.'

-

‘Well, he could look after her, but he's supposed to be studying for AS levels this year. It's not fair on him.'

-

‘Oh, forget it. I'll sort everything out while you're off finding yourself.'

-

She handed me the phone. ‘He wants to talk to you,' she said.

I took the phone nervously and walked through into the kitchen.

‘Hello?' I said.

‘All right, Ben,' he said. ‘Look, sorry about shouting at you.'

‘I'm sorry about lying,' I said.

‘I understand why you did,' he said. ‘But let's not have any more secrets, OK?'

‘Are you coming home soon?' I said.

‘Soon,' he said. ‘I'm in Cornwall, doing a spot of fishing.'

‘OK,' I said. It must be nice to be able to run off like that, when things get a bit difficult. I wished I could do the same, but I didn't say that to him.

‘Look,' he said. ‘I've got us those tickets. Stamford Bridge. A week Sunday.'

Typical Dad. Totally missing the point as usual. Still, he was trying, in his way.

‘Great. I'll look forward to it,' I lied.

It was only after I hung up that I remembered that that Sunday was the AUKKC final.

I got a text today from Joe:

I texted back:

Awful day. Megan-related. I haven't seen her properly for ages, not since the brief encounter at Christmas, but I ran into her on the way home from school.

‘Hi,' I said.

‘Hello,' she sniffed. ‘Haven't seen you around much.'

‘I've been busy.' It was true. I'd had three orders off Etsy for my tank tops. I'd run out of yarn but was putting off a trip to Pullinger's to stock up because of the ongoing awkwardness with Natasha. Also, I'd reached a tricky bit with Patt.r.n and the ziggurat was taking up far more of my time than I'd anticipated. Because it was me doing it, and I can't just do anything in a simple, practical way, I'd decided to model it on that scene in
Apocalypto
when the captives are being sacrificed and thousands of screaming Mayans are dancing around down below. I had this idea of pouring red glaze over the top so it would look like it was all drenched in blood.

I should also mention that one of the bare-breasted female captives bears a striking resemblance to Miss Swallow. I'll have to squash it before showing it to her, or at least dress it in a modest tunic.

Anyway, with all that going on, I had to do my studying at school, so I was elbow-deep in books in the common room over lunch and in the library for an hour after school most days. The only place I found I could get any study done was where there wasn't anything knitting- or ziggurat-related.

‘How's Natasha?' Megan said as we walked.

‘Er, OK, I think.' There was an awkward silence, while I contemplated the subtext of her question.

‘She's not my girlfriend,' I added after a pause.

‘Right,' Megan mused. ‘But she likes you.'

‘See, I don't think she does,' I said, though I had lately been wondering if maybe she did. ‘She's much too old for me.'

‘Ben,' Megan said, stopping and turning to face me. ‘Believe me, she likes you.'

Now, I don't really fancy Natasha, but it's nice to be liked. I was flattered by the thought. I was also embarrassed by it, and set off walking again so Megan wouldn't see my face go red.

‘So you should go for it,' Megan said, trotting after me. ‘You share common interests after all.'

I looked at her, slightly taken aback. ‘You mean knitting?'

‘Yeah, isn't that nice?'

Now I'm sure she said this in a sarky, smirky kind of way, but she kept a straight face.

‘Why are you being like this?' I asked. ‘I thought you were on my side.'

‘I am,' she said, looking away. We'd nearly reached her house by this time.

‘No, you're being sarcastic,' I said. ‘Like it's a big joke.'

She laughed. ‘Oh, don't be ridiculous.'

‘You think it's effeminate? Me knitting?'

‘Ben,' she said. ‘I don't want to argue about this. Enjoy your knitting, enjoy your older woman, I'll see you around, OK?'

And then she was gone.

Bloody women!

Something happened today which made me want to crawl under my duvet, whimpering and not come out till Boris Johnson becomes Prime Minister.

We were in assembly and I totally wasn't paying attention. Mrs Tyler was waffling about the recession and green shoots of recovery and about leadership and entrepreneurial stuff, the usual things. I had my head full of Patt.r.n and was half a world away when I heard my name.

‘Ben Fletcher will be representing Hampshire next Sunday in the junior division of the All-England Knitting Championships at Olympia in London.'

There was a collective intake of breath around the hall, and 400 eyes turned to stare at me, agog.

What was she doing? Was this intended to flush me out of hiding? To make it more likely I'd agree to enter Mr Hollis's competition? Would she stoop so low?

I tried to smile. All I wanted to do was stand and run, run for the exit, run for the hills, run under a bus. But I sat and soaked up the shame, the humiliation. I heard someone mutter something and someone else giggle. I heard whisperings of knitting clicking around the room like needles, or Bellend bobbing about like balls of yarn. I saw what was left of my reputation slide slowly, inexorably into the mud. I saw Lloyd Manning a few rows in front of me turn around and fix me with such a look of triumphant contempt it made me want to cry. I agreed with him. Right then, I was contemptuous of myself. He'd won. They'd all won. I was that loser. I was Bellend Ben.

‘Ben is the only male knitter to have ever attended an All-England final,' Mrs Tyler continued, slicing another chunk off my masculinity. ‘I also understand that Ben has plans to turn his love of knitting into a business. Quite the entrepreneur. So let's all have a big round of applause for Ben to wish him luck in the final on the seventeenth.'

The applause was huge, deafening, and utterly, utterly sarcastic. There were cheers, wolf whistles, howls of encouragement. I was that red you could have been mistaken for thinking my skin was on inside out.

‘Knitting?' Gex said later, shaking his head. We were under the oak on the far side of the football pitch, having taken refuge from the constant bombardment of knitting jokes and insults I'd been experiencing since assembly had finished.

‘Yes, knitting,' I sighed. ‘I had to take a course for my probation. It's a Waypoint.'

‘But  …  knitting?' Joz said.

‘There wasn't much choice,' I protested.

‘Yeah, but  …  knitting?' Freddie added incredulously.

‘Don't give me a hard time, guys,' I said. ‘Sorry I didn't tell you, but I could really do with your support now.'

‘Knitting twat!' someone yelled at me from across the football field.

‘Don't worry. We got your back,' Gex said, patting me on the shoulder. Joz and Freddie murmured in agreement.

‘Thanks,' I said gratefully. We sat for a while, in silence. I took a deep breath. It was good to have friends around in my hour of need.

‘Oh no,' Freddie said after a while. ‘There's a hole in my sock. Ben, could you fix it with your knitting skills, please?'

‘Very funny, Freddie,' I replied. ‘But you darn holes, you don't knit them.'

‘Ben, I seem to have torn my underpants on a rusty nail,' Gex said after a pause. ‘Any chance you could knit the hole up for me?'

‘Hilarious, Gex. But underpants are usually made of cotton, so a needle and thread would be more appropriate.'

‘Ben,' Joz said a little later. ‘Could you please knit me a beanie with some writing on it? I want it to read
Knitting Twat
. It's a gift for a friend.'

I sighed and declined to respond to that one. I'm better than that.

‘So can we come to this Crochet Smackdown?' Gex asked. ‘The Head said there was tickets available.'

‘I'm not sure it's really your thing,' I replied hastily.

‘Might be fun,' Joz said. ‘Trip up to London and that.'

‘I don't know  … ' I said, wondering how I could discourage them. I decided to change the subject.

‘What am I going to do about my reputation?' I asked. ‘I'll never live this down.'

‘To be fair, mate, your reputation was pretty poor anyway,' said Freddie unhelpfully.

‘Nah. It'll be difficult, I reckon,' Joz said. ‘What with all the constant needling.'

I did a loud and long fake laugh in his face.

‘You should be writing these down,' I said. ‘They're comedy gold. How could Mrs Tyler have done this to me?'

‘Yep, she certainly stitched you up,' Gex said. Priceless!

‘Purl this, Bellend!' Lloyd Manning yelled at me across the mud. He was holding his crotch. I groaned.

‘Seriously. Things will calm down eventually,' Joz said. ‘Everyone will think it's hilarious for a few days and give you a hard time, then something else will come up and they'll move on to bullying the next loser.'

‘You really think so?' I asked, desperate for a crumb of comfort from my friend.

‘Absolutely. These things always follow a pattern,' he finished triumphantly. They all fell about, laughing.

‘I can't do this any more,' I said and walked off.

‘Come on, Ben, we're only having a laugh,' Gex called after me.

I spun, furious.

‘You're always just having a laugh, Gex,' I shouted. ‘You're supposed to be my friends. You're supposed to support me. But all you ever do is laugh at me, call me Bellend and get me into trouble. I've had enough.'

I stormed off and hid away at the back of the library, staring at a Chemistry text book without taking anything in.

I've got nothing left but the competition now.