The Great Christmas Knit Off. Alexandra Brown
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lifts his head on hearing his name so I give him a quick stroke. He laps it up before resting his chin back on my right foot.
‘Well I never, that was my late husband’s name, God rest his soul, and I haven’t heard it in a while, I must say! Is it significant to you too?’
‘Um, yes, I’m called Sybs, well, Sybil really. My friend, Cher, she came up with his name on account of—’
‘Oh yes, I know it! From the TV series, Fawlty Towers, it was so funny. Basiiiiiiiiiiil,’ she bellows, taking me by surprise. ‘That’s what his wife, Sybil, used to holler – it was a standing joke with my Basil and I. He always laughed when I did it to him.’ Her eyes close momentarily as she reminisces.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say gently.
‘Oh, thank you, love, but it was a very long time ago and he certainly had a good innings. I’m on my second husband now, met him a year ago on a coach tour to Portofino. Colin was the driver,’ she chuckles, ‘and fourteen years younger than me. I’m Dolly, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Dolly.’ I smile, loving her zest for life, and Dolly chuckles and winks before loosening her coat and removing her fur hat.
‘You have the right idea, Sybs, it’s mighty warm in this carriage, that heater is churning out the hot air.’ She frowns, pointing at the panel beside us.
‘It sure is,’ I say, slipping off the parka.
‘Cor! That’s a beauty. Knit it yourself?’ She nods at my Christmas jumper.
‘Oh, um, yes I did. Thank you!’ I beam and cast a glance down at the fleece-lined chunky red knit with Ho Ho Ho emblazoned across the front in sparkly yarn, and each Ho a different colour. The heater in the Clio is so temperamental that I wasn’t taking any chances on freezing to death during the long drive to Tindledale and this is the warmest jumper I’ve ever made, but then, when the taxi turned up right away, I didn’t have time to get changed into something more suitable for a steamed-up train journey.
‘You have a real gift. I could never get on with knitting.’ Dolly shakes her head and I smile politely, unable to imagine a life without knitting. Knitting has never let me down: it soothes me, comforts me, excites me, calms me – it’s multifaceted and it means so many things to me. It may sound silly, but all of my knitting projects have memories attached too: I can swing a silver pashmina around my shoulders, knitted on holiday in Ibiza, and it instantly puts me right there on the sandy beach under a parasol with Cher nodding her head along to the tunes on her iPod, us laughing together, sipping sangria and feeling carefree and happy. This was long before I met Luke, or Sasha betrayed me. ‘So where are you off to?’ Dolly asks.
‘I’m going to surprise a friend who’s just moved to a village called Tindledale. Do you know it?’
‘I most certainly do. My Basil was postman there for a while and his father before him. Colin and I live in Stoneley, four stops before yours.’
‘Ooh, you might be able to help me with something then, please?’ I ask, eagerly.
‘Always happy to help if I can, dear. What is it?’ Dolly smiles kindly.
‘I left home in a bit of hurry and haven’t brought a housewarming gift for my friend, I don’t suppose you can recommend a shop where I can buy something nice for her? I was thinking a candle or some Belgian truffles perhaps.’ Cher isn’t really one for knitted garments, otherwise I’d have brought her a cardy, or a tea cosy or two. I managed to grab a bottle of red wine from my fridge, and it’s almost full, but it’s hardly the same as a proper present, especially when Cher already has a pub full of alcohol. Dolly laughs.
‘Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve actually been in Tindledale, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t anywhere that sells candles, certainly not the fancy fragranced ones that you’d be after. You might get some white Price’s household ones in the village store – they always used to keep a few boxes in stock for the power cuts,’ she says knowingly. ‘And as for chocolates, they won’t be Belgian, but I’m sure you’d get a nice bar of Fry’s Peppermint Cream in there too. They have quite a range in their small supermarket section – through the archway next to the post office counter.’
‘Lovely. I’ll head there right away,’ I say, not wanting to be rude, but I can’t exactly turn up with a bar of Fry’s chocolate. Cher will think I’ve really lost the plot.
‘Oh, it won’t be open this time of night, dear. The village store closes at four in the winter. You could try the pub though; just go to the hatch in the snug, they have a little shop that has sweets, crisps, cigarettes, milk, magazines, eggs, bread, firelighters, logs, lighter fuel … that kind of thing. There’s an honesty box so take what you like and leave the money in the bowl.’ I smile again – I can just see Cher’s face if I buy her a bag of crisps as a present from her own shop. And who ever heard of a pub with an honesty box? At the fried chicken place on the corner of my street they have a metal grill that you have to pay through at the time of order, and they don’t take notes over a fiver in case they’re forgeries.
*
The train pulls into Stoneley and I can barely keep my eyes open after chatting to Dolly for most of the journey. I stifle a yawn and will myself to keep awake.
‘Oh dear! You need a good night’s sleep.’ Hmm, this is true – I haven’t slept properly in months. ‘But not far now,’ Dolly says warmly, buttoning up her coat and giving Basil a parting tickle under his chin.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I say, doing a little wave.
‘You too, love. Enjoy your stay in Tindledale. And do look me up if you’re ever in Stoneley. We have the import/export company on the old Market Briar road – can’t miss our barn which doubles as a warehouse. Cheerio.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile and wave again as she steps off the train and walks past the window and into the arms of her husband who is waiting to greet her at the end of the platform with a big grin on his face and an enormous bouquet of festive winter blooms – rich reds, oranges and greens, and there’s even one of those little dried pumpkins on a stick nestling next to a silver-sprayed sprig of mistletoe which he plucks from the bunch and holds high above her head before leaning in for a Christmas kiss. Laughing, she bats his chest before pulling him in close. They clearly adore each other and it’s so nice to see. Maybe there’s hope for me yet …
Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and realise that I really am exhausted. A few minutes later I become conscious that Basil’s beside me, so I open one eye and do a quick scan of the carriage. The guy by the window is still engrossed in his newspaper and there’s nobody else here, so I put my hand around Basil and stroke his silky soft ear. He takes the cue and snuggles into the side of my thigh, curling into a ball and making himself as small as possible, instinctively knowing that he needs to be on his best behaviour or he’ll be back on the hard train floor.
*
The train stops moving and I jolt awake.
‘Er, excuse me … are we here?’ I ask the ticket inspector, as I wipe away the condensation that’s gathered on the window, but he’s already heading back off down the carriage, and the guy with the newspaper has gone too. I must have nodded off.
I peer out through the gap on the glass.
And gasp.
We’re on the set of Frozen! Or so it seems. Outside there’s a magical winter wonderland where Olaf could appear at any given moment – I’m convinced of it. The platform is covered in a beautiful layer of crisp, clean white snow, untouched and definitely not mottled with dirt like the sludgy grey sleet at home. It’s perfect. Just like one of Mum’s special festive placemats with the perfect Christmassy scene on them that she keeps for best, or for when Gloria from next door pops in for her annual New Year drinks soirée.
Feeling very excited, I quickly pull on my parka, loop my hand through Basil’s lead and gather