The Natter of Knitters
The Natter of Knitters
Tales from Wendlebury Barrow (Quick Reads), Volume 1
Debbie Young
Published by Hawkesbury Press, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE NATTER OF KNITTERS
First edition. January 31, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Debbie Young.
ISBN: 978-1911223528
Written by Debbie Young.
Also by Debbie Young
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Stocking Fillers: Twelve Short Stories for Christmas
Single Short Story
Lighting Up Time: A Short Story for the Winter Solstice
The Owl and The Turkey
The Alchemy of Chocolate
Tales from Wendlebury Barrow (Quick Reads)
The Natter of Knitters
The Collected Columns
All Part of the Charm: A Modern Memoir of English Village Life
Young By Name: Whimsical Columns from the Tetbury Advertiser
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The War of the Peek Freans Light Wounded
Westonbirt Association News 2015
H is for Hawkesbury - Hawkesbury Upton Literature Festival Anthology 2015
Westonbirt Association News 2016
Westonbirt Association News 2018
Watch for more at Debbie Young’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Debbie Young
Dedication
The Natter of Knitters (Tales from Wendlebury Barrow, #1)
1 Flash Bang
2 Casting On
3 Row Upon Row
4 Stitched Up
5 A Dropped Stitch
6 Checking Tension
7 Continue as for First Row
8 Grafting Stitches
9 Keeping the Pattern Straight
10 Slip Next Stitch
11 Not a Stitch On
12 The Final Row
13 Casting Off
Acknowledgements
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Further Reading: Best Murder in Show
Also By Debbie Young
About the Author
To Irene Smith, Joy Bell and the Chudleigh WI
“Everyone can knit
once they’ve learned how.”
Carol Barker
“If someone invented wool today,
it would be hailed as a wonder fibre.”
Mrs Fortescue
“You can’t reason with a sheep.”
Sophie Sayers
1 FLASH BANG
2 Casting On
3 Row Upon Row
4 Stitched Up
5 A Dropped Stitch
6 Checking Tension
7 Continue as for First Row
8 Grafting Stitches
9 Keeping the Pattern Straight
10 Slip Next Stitch
11 Not a Stitch On
12 The Final Row
13 Casting Off
Acknowledgements
1 Flash Bang
A BOMB IN WENDLEBURY Barrow?
Clive Wren, the local paper’s photographer, could hardly believe his good fortune. For once he was in the right place at the right time to scoop a news story worthy of the front page. It made a welcome change from his usual tedious assignments, snapping endless staged presentations of giant cheques or forced line-ups of local sports teams, new school classes or old biddies celebrating significant birthdays and anniversaries. This was the closest he’d ever get to his dream of reporting from a war zone, and he was going to make the most of it.
Along with the rest of the crowd assembled around the village green, Clive had jumped at the sound of the explosion. Without missing a beat, he pressed and held down the shutter button to capture a series of photos a split second apart. Thus he recorded the passage of time as charcoal-black smoke emerged from the device hidden in an innocuous clump of grass in front of the old oak tree. Dark tendrils curled up among the branches and reached out to wrap tentacles around onlookers. And on the precise spot where the device had exploded, to everyone’s surprise, there emerged like a genie from a lamp—
But there was no time to gawp. Clive had better call it a wrap and scoot back to the office before any locals shared the photos they’d snapped on their phones, which, via social media, might reach his picture editor before he did. If he was quick, he’d just have time before his next shoot at Slate Green. He could gather the facts later.
2 Casting On
THREE WEEKS EARLIER
“I’ve got a nice bit of steak here that I was about to mark down, dear.”
As I entered the village shop, Carol was holding a cellophane package of beef, her thumb over the price label.
“Only a pound to you, and it’ll be fine as long as you eat it today.”
The slender girl with skin the colour of shortbread paled even further.
“No thanks, I’m fine with just fruit.”
She set a banana and a small bunch of black grapes on the counter before retrieving a batik coin purse from her hippyish hemp shoulder bag.
“Well, if you’re sure.”
Carol weighed the grapes and rang up the total on the till. The girl – well, woman, really; she must have been in her twenties, like me – handed over two pound coins. The minute she received her change, she fled the shop.
Through the plate glass window, I watched her march down the high street towards the village green.
“Who was that? She’s new to the village, isn’t she? If she’d waited, I would have introduced myself.”
Remembering how warmly I’d been welcomed on my arrival in Wendlebury Barrow, I wanted to do the same for this latest arrival.
Carol set the packet of steak down on the counter.
“She’s a strange one, is Ariel Fey. Just moved into old Mrs Potts’s cottage on the green. Mrs Potts’s daughter’s renting it out for now – she couldn’t bear to sell it so soon after her mother passed.”
“She’s taken that big place for just one person? She’ll rattle around in it. It’ll be expensive, too, if she’s on her own.” Mrs Potts’s cottage was at least twice the size of mine. “Where was she living before?”
“With her mum near Liverpool, apparently, until she died last month. That was just before Ariel was due to move south when the charity she works for dislocated to Cirencester.”
She meant relocated, of course. Carol has her own way with words.
“That’s a lot of life changes to go through in a short space of time.”
Carol took a duster from the hook by the till and started wiping down the counter.
“She was meant to be going to India with friends a couple of months before she moved. She’d booked a satirical and everything.”
Sabbatical.
“But then her mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer and not given much time. So Ariel cancelled her travel plans and used her satirical to stay with her mother to the end. What a good girl.”
Years ago, Carol had nursed her own parents through their final illnesses, at the expense of her independence. No wonder she felt a bond with Ariel already.
“She does look as if she’s been through a tough time. There’s not much of her. My Auntie May would have said ‘Where does she keep her organs?’”
Carol smiled. “I know. I’d like to sit her down and feed her a good Sunday roast. All she’s bought so far has been fruit and vegetables. It’s not enough to keep a hamster alive.”
“Maybe she’s got a pet hamster, and that’s who she’s buying it for. Or she might be a vegetarian or even a vegan.”
Carol frowned. “No wonder she turned her nose up at my perfectly good steak.”
“But I’m omnivorous,” I said brightly, picking up the steak to read the label. “And Hector’s partial to a nice bit of steak. He’s coming to mine for dinner tonight. Do you want me to take it off your hands?”
Hector’s my boyfriend, and proprietor of the village bookshop, Hector’s House, where I work.
“But hang on, this isn’t past its sell-by date. It’s good for another couple of days.”
I narrowed my eyes at Carol. Without meeting my gaze, she took the pack out of my hand and replaced it in the chiller cabinet, alongside the Scotch eggs and strudel. She keeps her stock in alphabetical order to make it easier to find things. The huge superstore down in Slate Green, our nearest market town, would do well to follow suit. I can never find what I’m looking for there.
Carol returned to the till.
“I thought she might be short of cash after her move, especially alone in that big house with only herself to pay the rent. That might be why she’s trying to live on rabbit food.”
I’d never seen a rabbit eat a banana. I wondered how it would cope with peeling one.
I tried to look stern.
“Honestly, Carol, and you wonder why the shop’s not as profitable as it might be. And look, here’s something you’re giving away completely free.”
I indicated a deep wire basket filled with clear plastic bags. Each was stuffed with different coloured knitting wool, every bag containing four balls in carefully chosen toning shades. It was a cheering sight on this grey autumn day.
“Join our free knitting club,” said the sign sellotaped to the back of the wire basket. The lettering was wiggly, suggesting a row of knitting, and in place of every vertical line was a drawing of a knitting needle.
“That seems a lot of effort to go to for no financial return,” I said.
Carol perked up. “Ah, but this is for charity – and it’s not costing me a penny.”
She reached behind the counter to produce an A5 flyer headed “Knit a scarf to show you care” beneath the logo of the homeless hostel down in Slate Green.
“You see, Mrs Fortescue rounded up all these odds and ends of wool from the villagers. At last night’s WI meeting, we had great fun sorting them by colour. Each bag contains enough yarn to knit a nice warm scarf. Our challenge is to knit all the scarves we can in response to the hostel winter appeal. I’m sure you’d like to help, wouldn’t you, Sophie?”
“I’m sorry, Carol, I can’t knit.”
“Of course you can. Everyone can knit once they’ve learned how.”
Her vocabulary may be dodgy, but her logic is flawless.
“We’re having a Knit and Natter session to get the project started in the village hall on Wednesday evening. I could teach you to knit there. Do say you’ll come.”
She gazed at me in silence for a moment. I could see why Ted, Carol’s recently acquired partner, found her big brown eyes so winning.
“But I haven’t any knitting needles.”
Sensing her battle already won, she waved her arms airily.
“I’ve plenty of spare needles. I’ve all my mother’s as well as my own.”
She pulled a steel pair in shiny crimson out from the cupboard under the counter and thrust them at me like a duelling fencer. That cupboard has the capacity of Narnia’s wardrobe.
“Just pick a bag of wool in your favourite colours and bring it with your needles tomorrow.”
I chose a pleasing combination of forget-me-not, bluebell, cornflower and hyacinth and stuck the needles through the plastic bag, skewering all four balls of yarn like a fluffy kebab.
“And the best is yet to come.” Carol clapped her hands in anticipation. “There’ll be a special announcement Wednesday night. Wait and see. It’s confidential till then. It’s so exciting!”
Exciting wasn’t a word I’d usually associate with knitting, but if it made Carol happy, I was prepared to go along with her. Besides, it would help the homeless. There but for the grace of God, and all that. I was lucky. I’d been given my house for nothing as a legacy from my great aunt, and I would always feel a little guilty about that. This was something I could do to help salve my conscience.
“Take a peek inside the bag when you get home and you’ll find a clue to vet your appetite,” she called after me as I left the shop with my bag of wool and a large carton of milk for the bookshop. “There’s a secret message inside one of your balls of yarn.”
Perhaps this would turn out to be more of an adventure than I’d thought, despite my appetite being in no need of a vet. Or a doctor, for that matter. I might even enjoy it.
3 Row Upon Row
“NOT YOU AS WELL?” WAS Hector’s greeting as I entered the bookshop.
“Good morning to you too,” I said, hanging my coat on its usual peg.
In the absence of customers, he came out from behind the trade counter to give me a toothpastey kiss. Taking the bag of wool from my hand, he held it up to the light from the shop window, as if examining a goldfish I’d won at a funfair.
“Tell me, Sophie, what’s going on? Half the mums I’ve seen walking up to school this morning, and at least one of the dads, have been clutching bags like this. Is it some sort of coded symbol? Have you all joined a secret society, and this is your badge of office?”
“No, but apparently there is some sort of covert plan afoot. I’ve yet to find out what.”
I took the yarn back from him and set it down on the tearoom counter. As soon as I’d put the milk in the fridge, I delved inside the bag in search of Carol’s secret message.
I squeezed the balls of yarn until one of them crackled, indicating a piece of paper rolled up and tucked inside like a message in a fortune cookie. Unfolding it, I read aloud the single word written on it in capital letters:
“Yarnbombing.”
I glanced up at Hector, who seemed as puzzled as I was.
“You’re going to bomb Wendlebury with yarn? Hardly a weapon of mass destruction.”
I shrugged. “I suppose a big enough ball might crush a person. Not these, though.”
I lobbed the forget-me-not blue at his head. It bounced noiselessly off his right ear.
“Imagine, death by a thousand balls of fluff,” I said.
Hector picked it up and threw it back. It landed neatly in a sugar bowl.
“So what is yarnbombing exactly?” he asked as I dusted it off over the sink.
“Don’t ask me, I’m not entirely sure. Why don’t you Google it while I make our morning coffee?”
I filled the water reservoir of the coffee machine as he interrogated his laptop’s search engine.
“Oh, I like the sound of this,” he said after a moment. “Listen to these alternative names for yarnbombing: guerrilla knitting, graffiti knitting, kniffiti. Sophie, you vandal! Better not let Bob catch you in the act.”
Bob is the policeman who lives in the village a few doors down from Hector’s House.
“The thing is, I can’t actually knit yet. First I need to learn.”
He pursed his lips. “I’d refer you to one of our craft books, but while you were dropping deliveries into the village school yesterday, I sold the last teach-yourself-to-knit book to Tommy’s mum. She had one of those bags of wool too.”
Tommy is a local teenager who spen
ds a lot of time in the bookshop, for the company rather than the love of reading. His mum doesn’t usually go out much in the village. I hoped this project might encourage her to emerge from her post-divorce reclusiveness.
“I don’t think anyone’s allowed to leave the village shop without one at the moment.”
“So there’s a higher purpose behind it than genteel vandalism?”
I dropped a coffee capsule into the machine and pressed the button to fill Hector’s favourite mug.
“It’s for charity. We’re to knit scarves for the homeless, to keep them warm in winter.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you a bit young to be knitting? I thought it was the preserve of the elderly.”
I took him his coffee and lingered behind him, draping my arms round his shoulders as I leaned over to look at his laptop screen.
“Sorry if you think I’m being staid. Would you like me to ask Carol to set up a charity pole-dancing event instead?”
He was silent for a moment while he contemplated that prospect. Then he patted my hands affectionately.
“Your aunt didn’t knit.”
“So? Auntie May might be my role model, but I don’t copy her blindly. And if I did, I’d be sleeping with Joshua instead of you.”
Joshua was my elderly neighbour and my late aunt’s former sweetheart.
Hector grinned sheepishly. Not that I’ve ever seen a sheep grin.
“Touché.”
I prodded him between the ribs, where I know he’s ticklish, and he tensed, trying to resist.
“Anyway, if this knitting craze is sweeping the village, you stand to sell a lot more knitting craft books. You’d better stock up. And put my name at the top of the waiting list.”
I knew that would bring him onside.
4 Stitched Up