Boys Don't Knit (6 page)

The upstairs toilet's blocked again. Dad blames me for using too much bog roll, but the problem is clearly the noticeable kink in the soil pipe. The soil pipe that HE installed, I might add.

‘Dad, you really need to get a proper plumber in to sort out that bathroom,' I said.

‘I am a proper plumber,' he replied.

‘No, you're a mechanic,' I told him. ‘That's different.'

‘Ever heard of hydraulics?' he snapped. ‘It's plumbing for cars. It's just fluid going through pipes. Same for cars as it is for bathrooms.'

‘Well, then maybe I should take my dumps in the Citroen until the upstairs toilet's fixed,' I said. ‘Let the hydraulics flush it away.'

‘Don't be a smart-arse,' he said, and that was the end of that conversation.

God, I'm bored. I'm working on increasing and decreasing, which is gradually either adding or subtracting stitches from rows to make the piece thinner or thicker. You'd do that with a sleeve, for example, that you wanted to be thinner at the bottom than the top.

The funny thing is, when I start knitting I just get into it so quickly and next thing I know an hour's gone by. It's relaxing too. It helps me take my mind off my worries.

I think I might be starting to turn into a knitting bore.

So I went to see Mrs Frensham today. That went well. Not. She lives in a terraced house on Park View, which isn't near the park and doesn't have a view. Unless the park is Sainsbury's car park and the view is Sainsbury's car park. I told Dad where I was going and he seemed really proud, like I was off to receive a Duke of Edinburgh award as opposed to what I was actually doing, which was fulfilling the terms of my probation by providing home assistance to an old lady I'd nearly killed. I suppose it's good to have his support, but if he's proud of me over this it does tend to suggest he has quite low expectations. I clearly don't need to do much to earn his respect. If I'm ever in the dock at Basingstoke Crown Court facing a thirty stretch for a triple murder, I can be sure Dad will be there in the gallery wiping away a tear, beside himself with pride at the fact that I managed to tie my own tie.

Anyway, as I approached the house I was bricking it, frankly. Claudia Gunter had sent Mrs Frensham a letter warning her I was coming, but that just gave her more time to plan her assault on me the minute I walked in the door. It wouldn't just be a lollipop this time. What other pieces of giant confectionery might she have in there? An eight-foot Curly Wurly? A mammoth tube of Smarties?

I walked up the path and rapped on the door, setting off a fusillade of yapping from inside. Oh, Jesus, she's got a bloody dog, I thought.

She took ages to come to the door. I could see her approaching; a large dark shape visible through the pane of frosted glass in the door. She called out.

‘Who is it?'

‘It's Ben Fletch—' I began, in a strangled voice, made high-pitched by nerves. I stopped.

‘What? Who? What?' she called back. ‘I'm an atheist!'

‘Yap, yap, yap,' went the dog.

I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘It's Ben Fletcher,' I said in an exaggeratedly deep and gravelly voice, which in hindsight might have seemed a little threatening.

‘Yap, yap, yap.'

‘Fletcher? Fletcher? Do I know you?'

‘Yes, from the  …  accident, with the Martini Rosso?'

She went quiet, though I thought I may have heard a sharp intake of breath. Even the dog went quiet. Then I saw the dark shape retreat down the corridor.

‘Hello?' I called. I stood there for a moment, rolling my eyes. ‘Mrs Fletcher?'

Here I was, ready to start tying raspberry canes, or whitewashing the windows or whatever, and the old bat had disappeared.

A window opened on the first floor and I looked up just as a heavy object hit me on the forehead and I fell over in pain and surprise. It turned out to be an alarm clock. An old, heavy alarm clock. I looked up at her, gobsmacked, just as another object whizzed past my head and smashed on the crazy paving, something made of porcelain.

She had something else in her hand too, a hairbrush, I think, and as she curled her arm, ready to hurl it at me I scrambled to my feet and backed down towards the gate, my heart thumping.

‘You mental old witch,' I yelled. A couple of people passing by had stopped to watch. ‘I'm not considered a danger to the public!'

‘Come back to finish the job, have you?' she screeched and let fly with the hairbrush which I was just about able to fend off. ‘Hoodie!'

I wasn't even wearing my hoodie!

‘I'm supposed to be here,' I shouted. ‘Claudia Gunter sent you a letter.'

‘I didn't get any letter,' Mrs Frensham shouted, then she ducked back inside, presumably looking for more things to throw.

‘Leave her alone,' said a man carrying a Sainsbury's bag.

‘I'm supposed to be here,' I protested. ‘My probation officer sent me.'

‘You're frightening her,' a woman said.

‘I'm frightening her?' I spluttered. ‘I'm not the one throwing bric-a-brac.'

‘You should be ashamed,' the woman said.

This was pointless. I dusted myself off and left, as a bottle of hand cream bounced off my shoulder.

I'm dreading school tomorrow. I don't mind it normally, and as irritating as my friends are at least I've got some now. Before Gex showed up I was mostly on my own dealing with Lloyd ‘psycho' Manning. I still can't believe I was the one who got in trouble for cracking that toilet when it was Lloyd and his mates who shoved my head into it. So I don't want to sound ungrateful or anything but recent events have caused me to worry that my friends are a liability, to say the least. See, Freya Porter is already advertising a massive party at half-term and everyone's invited. Even me. And I just know that if Gex and Joz and Freddie go, they will do something stupid and illegal and I'll somehow get caught up in it and it'll get back to West Meon Probation Services. And this could result in a recurring nightmare of probationary classes for the next ten years. Basically, all of my youth wiped away by hanging out with those three idiots.

On the other hand, Megan's going to be at Freya's party, and I've got a suspicion that Joz fancies Megan too, and I'm certainly not letting him try out any of his
Fifty Shades of Graham
techniques on her.

First day of the new term today. I've decided to do both Advanced Maths and English at AS level. On top of Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Geography and Computer Science.

Oh crap. Just read that back to myself.

I caught up with Freddie as we went into the main foyer and we stopped as we came face to face with a giant plasma screen giving us the hour in eight time zones and rss headlines from around the world. We watched the scrolling text for a while and marvelled at the fact that people in Mexico City were still in bed.

‘What's all this about?' Freddie asked.

‘I think we've been bought by someone new over the holidays,' I replied.

I should explain that our school, including the sixth-form college which is in a separate building, was turned into an academy three years ago. This basically meant installing a few Coke vending machines and four iPads were donated by a local office supply company. Then some outfit called Euripidia invested in us, became a ‘stakeholder' and built a new toilet block. Though why anyone would want a stake in any toilet used by Lloyd Manning is beyond me. Unfortunately Euripidia went out of business and sold their stake-holding to a US bank, which also went under and last year we were bought out, toilets and all, by a Brazilian hedge fund. Cue dozens of lame jokes from Joz about ‘Brazilian hedges'.

Anyway, it looked like someone else had bought the school, and the toilets, which are no longer functional in any case, and had installed this spanking new bit of technology.

I explained all this to Freddie, in simple language. He nodded and said, ‘But why are there all them clocks?'

I couldn't answer that, because I had no idea. There was a plaque above one of them, though. It said:

Virilia – Investing in Tomorrow's Entrepreneurs

‘I think they're looking for young entrepreneurs,' I told Freddie as we headed up the stairs to our home room along with the throng. The sound of clattering shoes was deafening and we had to shout to be heard.

‘What, like Marcus Fowler selling dope to Year Nines?' Freddie asked.

‘Probably not,' I replied.

‘Or Holly Osman selling, you know  … ' he said, glancing around furtively.

‘What does Holly Osman sell?' I asked.

‘You know,' he whispered. ‘In the broken toilet block.'

‘I don't know,' I said, stopping. Other students jostled me as the stream carried on up the stairs. Why didn't I know? ‘What does she sell?'

Freddie, for all his faults, is an excellent mime. He made it pretty clear what services Holly was offering, both of them. I was shocked, and a bit confused. I fancied Holly Osman. I had no idea she was getting up to that sort of thing.

‘How much does she charge for that?' I asked.

‘What, this?' he said, miming again.

‘No, the other one,' I said.

‘Ten pounds.'

‘That's actually quite reasonable,' I said.

‘It's fifteen pounds for this  … ' he said.

‘Please stop doing that,' I said, feeling sick.

‘You have to wait to be asked,' he said as we carried on.

‘Are you sure about this?' I asked.

‘Yes,' he said, annoyed that I was doubting him. ‘Everyone knows.'

For once on a Saturday, the whole family was together and we celebrated by going to Tesco. After we'd done the food shop we packed the bags into the car before walking down the High Street. There are loads of empty shops these days. The butcher has closed now and Mum says the bookshop is on its last legs. Molly and I invented a game called ‘Death on the High Street'. I got a point every time we passed a charity shop and she got a point for every mobile phone shop. I won 9–6.

There is one shop, though, that has always been on the High Street, and I've never really paid much attention to it before. It's a sort of hobby shop called Pullinger's. Not Warcraft or toy soldiers, but they do have model aeroplanes and ships, and they have billion-piece jigsaws in the window. It's the sort of place frequented by people who live alone, old ladies wearing macs and middle-aged to elderly men wearing anoraks. The thing I like about Pullinger's is the old-skool sign over the door. They've resisted the temptation to rebrand by losing the capital letter or the apostrophe.

I couldn't help noticing the display of knitting needles and brightly coloured wool balls and I admit my attention was caught. I stopped to look.

I was so busy openly looking at a knitting display that I didn't notice Mum standing next to me until she nudged me with her elbow.

‘Why don't you pop in?' she said. ‘You can catch us up.'

‘What does he want in there?' Dad asked, clueless.

‘He's looking for a present for Mrs Frensham, aren't you? said Mum. She clicked her fingers and a £10 note appeared, which she pushed into my hand.

I love my mum sometimes. I ducked into the shop before Dad could ask any more questions. The bell tinkled and I was in.

‘Ben?' a voice said, from the depths of the shop.

I peered back there, my eyes still adjusting to the light. I relaxed when I realised who it was.

‘Natasha?' I said.

She came down the aisle to greet me.

‘Do you work here?' I asked.

‘Yep. Three days mid-week and Saturdays,' she said. ‘Haven't seen you in here before.'

‘First time,' I explained.

‘Welcome,' she said, bowing and extending an arm like a Moroccan rug-seller. ‘Have a wander round and ask if you need any guidance.'

I'd been passing this shop for sixteen years and never once entered before. It was amazing. Old-fashioned, with boxes and drawers on high shelves you could only reach with a ladder. The knitting stuff seemed mostly to be at the back, in an Aladdin's cave full of brightly coloured yarns of a bewildering variety. I spent a long time inspecting a display of hundreds of knitting needles. They had US sizes as well as UK and European.

In the centre of the knitting room were racks of knitting patterns, new and second-hand. It was just like an old record store that sold LPs.

I was flicking through them when Natasha came wandering down to see how I was getting on.

‘Retro,' she said, peeking at the pattern for a tank top I was holding. ‘Very in.'

‘Is it?' I asked, looking at it. I'd picked it up because it was cheap, it looked simple and I needed a tank top.

‘Yep,' she said. She said yep quickly, like there was no point arguing with her. ‘You'll need washable wool for that. Thin strand.'

‘There are so many,' I said, turning around to look up at the wall of wool.

‘Lambswool there,' she pointed out. ‘Here's merino, Shetland, Icelandic, fleece. The novelty wools are on the other wall; we just got some new chenille in. But novelty yarn's a bit tricky for beginners.'

‘Amazing,' I said, doing a slow 360º. I loved the way they were shelved according to colour, the way I'd wanted to do my books once, before I panicked and decided to abort. It really worked here. Pale blue graduated into darker blue, to indigo, through violet and beyond into the reds. Here green became yellow via a dozen stages. The blacks and browns ran vertically next to them. I found it deeply soothing, everything in its rightful place.

‘Here's the washable section,' she said, indicating a tall shelf in the corner. ‘It's treated chemically to destroy the outer layers of fibre. Otherwise it's too fuzzy and it collects dirt too easily.'

She carried on showing me different varieties I can't remember now, but she was clearly very proud of her shop. It was like Q showing James Bond a selection of clever gadgets and weapon prototypes.

‘This is sheep's wool, of course?' I asked, trying to sound as though I knew anything at all about wool.

‘Yep. We do have goat, and even some angora.'

‘I thought angora was goat?' I said.

‘There are angora goats,' Natasha said. ‘Their wool is called cashmere. Angora wool comes from angora rabbits.'

‘I never knew,' I said.

As we stood together staring at the many subtle variances of wool, something occurred to me.

‘You know an awful lot about knitting for someone who's just started a beginner's knitting class,' I said suspiciously.

Natasha shrugged. ‘I do a lot of cross-stitch and crochet, which isn't as tricky as knitting with needles and I really want to learn to do it properly. The worst of it is it's my second time around in that class. I tried a couple of years ago, soon after I got this job, but I didn't have the time to practise. I didn't even finish the course  … '

She leaned even closer towards me and whispered, ‘Boyfriend trouble. Told him to sling his hook eventually.'

‘Sorry to hear it,' I said.

‘It's fine, I prefer being single and available,' she said, and I swear she winked at me. ‘Anyway, point is that I love the idea of knitting, and I read the magazines, and listen to the podcasts, but I'm not really that good at it. Not like you, you're a natural.'

‘Shut up,' I said, blushing.

‘You are,' she said. ‘You've got skills.'

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds until Natasha broke it.

‘Shall we continue the tour?' she said brightly. She waved an arm casually at a selection of needles in various point sizes. ‘Impressive, huh?'

‘Impressive,' I agreed, nodding earnestly.

I hadn't really planned on buying anything when I went in, but Natasha's sales technique convinced me and I splashed out on some merino in French navy, along with a couple of balls of chenille, which might come in handy for my grandma. I had just enough money.

As she handed me the bag with my goodies in, she said, ‘So you're serious about this, then?'

‘What?'

‘Serious about knitting. You're not just doing it because you have to?'

I stiffened. ‘What do you mean?' I asked. ‘Why would I have to?'

She looked a little embarrassed.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I shouldn't have mentioned it. It's because of the probation thing  … '

‘You know about that?'

Now she was bright red.

‘Um  …  my friend Veronica does the admissions,' she said.

‘Great. So does everyone know?'

‘No,' she said quickly, but still the colour of a ripe tomato. ‘Just me and Amelia.'

‘Great,' I repeated.

Part of me was really cross about the lack of confidentiality, but another part of me was quite pleased that Natasha and her friend had been whispering about my shady past.

‘Sorry,' she said again. ‘If it's any consolation Amelia and I think it's quite cool.'

‘Don't worry about it,' I said casually, forcing myself to avoid calling her Doll face.

‘See you on Thursday,' she called as I left.

‘See you Thursday,' I replied as the bell tinkled.