Needles and Pearls (27 page)

Olivia’s trying not to laugh; it’s amazing how rude-sounding snorkel noises appeal to all age groups.

‘You wouldn’t have to pay me or anything, Jo.’

‘Of course I’ll pay you, love, you’ll be working, but let me talk to Elsie, and then I’ll ring you, shall I? I’m sure she won’t mind, but let me ask her, she likes to be asked. Jack, put that in the bin if you’ve finished, sweetheart, don’t leave it there. Is there enough change in the till?’

Olivia nods.

‘I think so, and Mum’s coming in later and she gets me change if I need it. Oh, and the credit card thingy has got stripes on the paper. Shall I change it?’

‘Please.’

Elsie must have left it knowing Olivia was in this morning; she’s much quicker at technical stuff like changing the till rolls, or the cartridges on the printer.

‘Come on then. Let’s go the beach.’

Jack puts his sandals back on.

‘Can I bring my book?’

I’ve brought some new books and pads of paper with a pack of coloured pencils so they have something to do when we’re here, but Jack always wants to take them home.

‘They’re for the shop, remember?’

He sighs.

Archie’s already halfway down the stairs as the shop bell rings, and there’s the unmistakable sound of Trevor barking. Bugger.

Double bugger. Martin’s holding a folder.

‘I thought I might find you here. I wanted to show the latest pictures for the website, if you’ve got a minute. Sit, Trevor. Sit.’

‘We’re just off to the beach, actually, Martin. Can we do it later?’

‘We’re going for a picknicker, and you can come too if you like – Trevor loves picnickers.’

Great. Trust Archie, although the local council have rather brilliantly banned dogs from the beach from 8 a.m. until 6 p.m., so while Martin explains this to Archie I edge us all out of the shop and on to the pavement. I’ve been trying to avoid the Trevor Dilemma and I’m not really up for sorting it now. Christine’s taken Mr Pallfrey off to Spain to recuperate, and he was supposed to be coming back in a few weeks’ time, but when Gran last spoke to her she said she’d almost persuaded him to rent his house in Broadgate and buy a flat next to hers, with a pool and everything. Apparently he’s joining the local ex-pats’ club
and having a lovely time, which is great, obviously, but does leave a rather big Trevor-sized issue looming.

‘I spoke to Mr Pallfrey last night.’

Damn, here we go.

‘Did you? How was he?’

‘Much better. He hardly needs his stick at all now, he says, and he’s decided to buy an apartment over there.’

‘Really? That sounds like a good idea.’

‘I know, but he’s been worrying about his nibs here, so I’ve told him I’m more than happy to have him. I’ve got quite fond of him over the past few weeks, and look, he’s getting much more obedient. Lie down, Trevor.’

Trevor stands up, just so we know he’s not trained, and then lies down.

Martin beams.

‘I thought I’d build him a kennel, but until it’s ready I was hoping you’d still have him, before the baby, of course. I’d be finished well before then, but I don’t like leaving him too long – he tends to dig big holes.’

‘I know, he does it with us too. We’ve got two separate ones in our garden at the minute and as fast as we fill them in he digs them again.’

‘I think it’s only because he gets anxious.’

‘Not half as anxious as I do when I’m hanging out the washing and wondering if I’m about to disappear into a crevasse.’

He laughs.

‘If you could just have him for another week or two? It’ll be two nights next week, but so far I’m on local jobs the week after. I’ll be as quick as I can with the kennel. I do realise you can’t have a dog with the baby.’

Archie throws his snorkel to the ground.

‘It’s not fair. He should be our dog, not Martin’s. It’d be much better to have Trevor than a stupid baby.’ He bursts into tears.

Great.

Martin looks mortified, and Jack puts his arm on Archie’s shoulder.

‘It’s okay, Arch, it’s only while it’s little. We can have a proper dog when the baby’s bigger, can’t we, Mum?’

Christ.

‘It’s not really about the baby, love. It’s more about him being in the house all day while you’re at school and I’m in the shop. It wouldn’t be fair. And you can see Trevor any time you like, and go for walks with him, can’t they, Martin?’

‘Of course, and I’ve found that boat I was telling you about, Archie, in my shed. I’ll bring it round later, if you like.’

Archie stops sniffing.

‘The wooden one with the proper sails?’

Martin nods.

‘Would you like that?’

‘Yes, please. And Mum, can we have doughnuts for lunch? Please, Mum, please?’

With a promised walk with Trevor and a wooden boat in the offing, a doughnut will crown his day with glory.

‘Yes, Archie, we can.’

He’s skipping again as we walk towards the baker’s shop and Martin goes off whistling.

Damn.

I think I’ve just lost another round in the ongoing Canine Campaign. And they’re both trying to bloody whistle again. Martin goes in for a fair bit of whistling when he’s in the shop waxing the shelves with his special cloth, but also
when Elsie’s attempting to boss him about, which I think has particularly impressed Jack. Luckily neither of them can actually whistle yet, but there’s a fair bit of puffing and blowing going on as we get to the beach.

A few of the local families are out as we walk down the steps, but it’s still fairly quiet. Luckily there’s rain forecast for later, which will have put the day trippers off; I’m starting to develop a rather proprietorial attitude to our beach, so it’s nice having a bit more of it to ourselves for a change.

Gran and Reg are sitting outside the beach hut reading their papers, and Reg seems to have invested in a new navy-blue sun umbrella.

Gran’s got the buckets and spades out ready for the boys.

‘Here you are, pet. Look, we’ve got new loungers, from that big new centre outside Margate; they were such a bargain we couldn’t resist. We thought it would be more comfy for you than the deckchairs. They’ve got them in all sorts of patterns – look, mine’s ever so pretty.’ She stands up to reveal the kind of multicoloured floral fabric that’s never going to feature in a Cath Kidston catalogue. ‘Yours is orange. Look.’

Reg staggers out from inside the hut with a sun-lounger covered in a riot of red and pink flowers, with orange parrots. God in heaven, what is it with the women in my family and parrots? First we have Mum and her mad kaftan, and now we’ve got Gran and her amazing technicolour chair.

‘It’s lovely, Gran, thanks.’

‘We knew you’d like it, pet. They’re like the ones we saw on our cruise, the parrots, only they had red beaks. Reg has got bluebirds on his one, look.’

So he has.

‘They’re ever so comfy; sit down and try it.’

I’ll say this for Gran, we might not share a taste for what does, or does not, constitute a lovely pattern on a chair, but she definitely knows how to pick a comfy one: it seems to have extra padding, and Reg is busy adjusting the back and clicking up the bottom bit until it’s almost as comfortable as my bed. Actually, possibly more. I wonder if I can take it home.

‘That’s perfect, Reg, thanks.’

‘There’s a little sunshade too. I’ll put it up for you – you just pull it over the top like this.’ A riot of orange parrots hovers above my head, with a dark-orange fringe. ‘Isn’t that clever?’

‘Brilliant.’

They both flip their sunshades over the back of their chairs and sit down again.

‘Makes you feel like a film star, doesn’t it?’

‘Definitely.’

Actually, all I need now is a tartan blanket and I’ll look like I’m recuperating from something tragic. Please let Annabel Morgan not to decide to venture on to the beach today. She doesn’t usually; I don’t think it’s exclusive enough for her, but this would be the perfect day for her to change her mind.

I’m in the shop on Tuesday, having a peaceful boy-free day: Connie’s taken them both to the local zoo for Nelly’s birthday treat, with a special birthday picnic prepared by me including pink fairy cakes from a packet with rice-paper ballerinas on top. Mark’s making a proper cake for later, but he refused even to contemplate the pink-packet ones she
wanted for her picnic, so I stepped into the breach before Connie hit him with his own spatula.

Gourmet tastes are all very well, particularly when they involve making delicious things for your wife to bring to her knitting group every week, but when it comes to fairy cakes everyone knows neon-pink ones win hands down, every time. They’ll be gone until teatime and I briefly considered going along too, but traipsing round miles of Kentish countryside trying to catch a glimpse of a lion is pretty low on my list of fun things to do at the best of times, let alone when you’re the wrong side of seven months pregnant.

I’m looking through the wicker baskets on the shelves upstairs in the workroom, trying to put together a new window display. I think we’ll be fine with the knitted fish for the rest of August, but I want to change over to tea cosies and knitted fairy cakes in September, with the glass cake stands I got in Venice last year, if I can find them. I’m thinking about knitted hot-water-bottle covers too. They sold really well last year in the run-up to Christmas, and I want to do more lavender bags as well. They’re so simple to knit, and they make the shop smell lovely, and we’ve got loads of lavender in the garden now. Elsie’s already started on some fancy ones in Fair Isle, and I’m thinking about a few simple animal shapes, birds and rabbits, I think, in soft cashmere with ribbons to hang them up: I saw some in a magazine at nearly thirty quid a go and I’m sure I can do something similar for half the price and still make a hefty profit. They’ll make perfect presents and nice easy projects for autumn evenings when I’m likely to have my lap full of someone who needs another feed before they conk out.

I still can’t really believe there’s going to be a baby at the end of all this. It still seems completely unreal, even though
I’ve been here twice before. A whole new person invisibly getting on with growing, ready for D-Day. It’s extraordinary. The midwife says we’re already on the top bit of the chart for growth, and all my tests so far have been fine. But it still doesn’t seem real.

I’m standing with my hand across my tummy when Elsie comes upstairs.

‘I’m putting the kettle on. Do you want tea?’

She’s been pretty sniffy about Olivia’s idea for a Saturday group so far, so any hint of an olive branch needs to be firmly grasped.

‘Lovely. Thanks, Elsie. You haven’t seen those cake plates we had in the window last year, have you?’

‘I put them in the back of the cupboard under the sink, wrapped up in plastic for safekeeping. Dangerous having glass on those shelves – they could fall off and hurt someone.’

‘Oh, right. Great.’

I wish she’d tell me when she squirrels stuff away in the kitchen.

‘How many teenagers do you think will be coming? Because you know what they’re like – they’ll be up to all sorts, you mark my words.’

‘Olivia’s very sensible, though, don’t you think?’

‘That’s as may be, but put them all together and they’ll be drinking spirits before you know it.’

Boozing upstairs in a wool shop with Elsie downstairs? I’d like to see them pull that one off.

‘I’ll keep an eye on them this week and we’ll see how it goes, shall we? And if you don’t think you can manage then Gran says she’s happy to come in for the next few Saturday afternoons.’

This is my trump card and now I’ve played I’m really hoping it’s going to work.

‘Oh I’m sure I can manage. There’s no need for Mary to bother herself; I was only saying we need to be careful. We don’t want to attract the wrong element. Some of them are terrible, you know, stealing cars and all sorts.’

‘They don’t usually want to learn to knit, though, do they, the ones stealing cars? And I think they’re a lot rarer than you think, Elsie. Not much of a story for the papers, is it? Nice kids getting on with growing up and annoying their parents. The ones who nick cars make much better headlines.’

She sniffs.

‘That Maxine just rang for you, by the way, said could you make it two-thirty today instead of two. I said you’d call her back.’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

I’m really looking forward to seeing Grace, and possibly Jean-Luc, although I didn’t like to ask Maxine about it when we spoke. But Jane Johnson said there were crowds of press outside the gates again when she drove past yesterday so they must be pretty sure he’s there.

‘And the sink in the kitchen isn’t draining properly again.’

‘Okay, I’ll have another go with the plunger.’

How nice. A spot of DIY plumbing before I’m off to Graceland.

There are cars parked all along the verge either side of the gates, and lots of bored-looking men with cameras, but thankfully Tom and Jerry have obviously been off to naughty-dog school and trot three paces behind Bruno as I get out of the car, responding to a series of clicks on a
special plastic clicker. I wonder if I should get one for Martin to try on Trevor.