Chapter Seventeen

It could be argued that gardening, with all its dirt and bugs and backache, is much more preferable than the new crochet project, and I would head up that debate with a passion. Because Gran has somehow got it into her head that after producing bog-standard, okay-at-best granny squares, I’m ready (and willing) to move on to making toys. She’s volunteered herself to make stripy crocheted sausage dogs, which will be raffled off at the dog shelter’s Easter fair, and seems to be under the impression that I’m capable of contributing to the cause. Admittedly, the picture on the pattern is adorable, but they’re a bastard to make and I’m ready to hurl hook, yarn and pattern out of the window. I’ve only been at it for half an hour and I’ve had to learn new words, phrases and techniques (amigurumi, magic loop, double crochet into the same stitch). It’s too damn complicated, and I haven’t even started properly yet because the magic loop, the very first step , is defeating me. Gran’s been very patient with me and showed me repeatedly how to do it, but I can’t get the hang of it, and every time she demonstrates, I want to toss her out of the window too. I should have taken the opportunity to dash back to the shop and the imaginary potato delivery while I had the chance.

‘I know it seems really, really complicated at the moment, but you will get it and it’ll be a doddle.’ Gran pats my knee, and a horrible thought flashes through my head: would it be even more satisfying to chuck her out of one of the upstairs windows?

‘Can’t we watch Waiting on You instead?’ I’ll be much calmer catching up on the soap, and I won’t have worrying granicidal thoughts. Plus, the last episode ended on a cliffhanger, with Elvin walking in on his wife getting it on with the chef. The shock of being caught out was enough to break Joanna’s waters, so now she’s in labour with the triplets.

‘We can’t. Not with James being at work.’ Gran picks up the black yarn and wiggles it in front of my face. ‘Come on, give it another go. You nearly had it last time.’

I snatch the yarn and wrap it over my fingers, just like Gran’s demonstrating with her own yarn. ‘James doesn’t even like Waiting on You .’

‘Of course he does. He’s getting into it. Didn’t you notice his surprise when Tegan broke off her affair with Amber?’

‘I believe his surprise was that she’d had time to have another affair, as well as holding down a full-time job.’ I follow Gran’s instructions with the hook. So far so good. ‘He also said he couldn’t believe anybody could keep that many relationships going without needing medical assistance.’ And then he’d said the show was a steaming turd when Gran had popped into the kitchen to put the kettle on during the ads, but I don’t repeat that now.

‘He’s definitely getting into it. He’ll be upset if we watch it without him.’ Gran peers at my fingers entwined with the yarn and nods. ‘That’s it. Now hook the second loop… And twist the hook… brilliant. Yarn over… Pull it through… Perfect! You did it!’

I did it! I’ve made a magic loop! I slide it off my fingers ever so carefully and stare down at it in wonder. It doesn’t look like much, just a little circle of yarn, but it’s the start of a whole new project. Plus, I’ve finally managed to do something before James. I’m one step ahead of him and I’m going to run with it.

‘What’s next?’

Gran reads out the next bit of instructions from the pattern. I do the stitches required – with a bit of help from Gran, obviously – and somehow, magically , the circle closes up and I’m left with… well, it’s a blob. I’ve messed it up. I’m going to have to start all over again. So much for being a step ahead of Mr Perfect.

My shoulders have slumped in defeat. I don’t think I have it in me to unravel the blob and start from scratch for the millionth time. But wait, Gran’s reading out the instructions for the next round as though I can plough on regardless. It’s a bit fiddly, but I do the stitches as per the instructions and slowly, round by round, the blob starts to take on a new non-blob shape. Dare I say it, it starts to look like a tiny dog’s nose.

I spend the next few hours with Gran, both working on our own sausage dogs on the sofa with daytime telly on in the background. I learn how to increase stitches and decrease them again, and by the time I have to leave to go to work, I have a complete stripy head of a dachshund. I can’t say it looks much like a dog’s head at the moment – it has more of a look of a misshapen Christmas bauble – but it looks similar to Gran’s and she assures me that it’ll look the part once we add the eyes and ears later.

I’m feeling quite proud of myself as I walk back to the flat, and I’m in such a buoyant mood, I say a cheery hello to Bolan, despite the glare I’m greeted by. I have just enough time to repot the plant into its new penguin mug before I head downstairs to the shop to take over from Bridget. The shop is empty of customers, but it won’t be long until the local horde of teenagers descends for an after-school snack. Some of the kids are cheeky and gobby, but they’re mostly harmless. There’s a group of girls who always sit in the corner, a plate of chips sitting on the table between them that they pick at while tapping away at their phones, occasionally giggling and passing the phone around to share whatever has amused them. Every now and then they’ll look up from their phones, usually when one of the more boisterous teen boys is in the vicinity, and they’ll pout and flick their hair and take the giggling up a notch. They make me smile, those girls, because they remind me of myself when I was their age, sitting with Sienna and gossiping about the boys we fancied. It was always Franko – Paul – I used to talk about, while Sienna’s crush would change on a week-by-week basis. It’s why I was so surprised when she settled down so quickly with Cam; they met in Vietnam four months into her six-month travels and spent the next two months together. By the time Sienna was due to fly home, she was engaged and planning to settle down in Cam’s native New Zealand.

‘I just knew, as soon as I saw him, that he was the one for me,’ Sienna told me once. Of course, Cam was bronzed, toned to perfection, and dripping wet from the sea at the time, which helped (Sienna painted quite the picture, even over the phone). Did I know that Paul was the one for me as soon as I saw him? That would be a big, fat no. I’ve known Paul Franks since we were in reception class, back when he cried for his mummy every morning until the teacher pulled him onto her lap and read him a story. When he had a constant snotty nose that he wiped periodically on the sleeve of his jumper. And even when we moved up to high school, he still wasn’t crush-worthy. He no longer had a snotty nose, and I hadn’t heard him cry for his mum for years, but he was just Paul Franks, a short, puppy-fat-faced boy who shared some of my classes. But then something miraculous happened during the summer before our GCSEs. He shot up so that he towered over most of his classmates, the puppy fat went, and he grew his hair so he had to flick his head every thirty seconds to stop it from flopping into his eyes. And it wasn’t just his looks that were transformed. He was more confident, louder, and he became ‘one of the lads’, swaggering down the corridors, giving smart-arse answers to the teachers and making the class erupt in giggles and jeers. All the girls had a thing for Franko after that summer, but it would take another three years until I finally kissed him. I smile to myself as I replay the moment in my head.

‘Hello?’ There’s a hand waving in front of my face, and I blink the memory away. There’s laughter from the corner of the chippy, and I see the group of girls giggling behind their hands as they watch what’s happening over here. One of the teenage lads is leaning against the counter, his eyes flicking from me to the girls and back again, a grin spread across his face. I hadn’t even realised we had customers, but Ross, the other temp Russell and Jed organised, must have served them while I was daydreaming of the past.

‘Can. I. Get. Some. Ketchup?’ The teen speaks slowly, his eyes flicking towards his audience again when they giggle.

‘Yes. You. Can.’ I speak just as slowly as I cross my arms and rest them on the counter. ‘If. You. Say. Please.’

There’s a pause, where the teen tries to come up with a witty response to entertain his entourage. I could have let him have his big moment in front of the girls and simply handed over the ketchup, but where’s the fun in that?

‘Whatever.’ The teen pushes himself away from the counter and swaggers towards the door. ‘Didn’t want ketchup anyway. I was just messing with you.’

The girls giggle again as he saunters out of the shop. They’re obviously easily impressed, but we’ve all been there, right? I know Franko didn’t have to do much to make my pulse quicken when I was their age – a hair flick, eye contact, walking into the room. I thought the boy was a god, but it’s nothing compared to what I think about him now. My relationship with Paul has been a major slow burn, but it’ll be worth the wait when we finally get together in seventy-three days.