The Natter of Knitters by Debbie Young

Author:Debbie Young
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cozy mystery, village life, British humour, English humour, uplit, feel-good fiction, easy reading, quick read, amateur sleuth, rural life, English village, female protagonist, romantic comedy, gentle mystery, easy read, knitting, crafts and hobbies, yarnbombing, knitters, sheep, wool, country crafts
Publisher: Hawkesbury Press
Published: 2020-01-30T16:00:00+00:00

8 Grafting Stitches

SOMETIMES I WORRY THAT we’re getting middle-aged before our time, Hector and I. The night before the yarnbombing event, Hector was sitting in one of his green leather fireside armchairs engrossed in a novel, while I knitted contentedly in the other, legs stretched out before the glowing wood burner. My vintage knitting book was balanced on the arm of my chair.

I’d just cast off the final stitch of my second scarf and was holding up the finished garment for him to admire, having dutifully handed in the first one at the village shop today to meet Mrs Fortescue’s deadline. This latest one was for Billy, in the mottled oatmeal yarn that I’d chosen so as not to show the dirt.

“Well done. Does that mean I can tear you away from your knitting now?”

Before I could reply, we were both distracted by the streetlights going out, indicating it was eleven o’clock. This recent innovation by the local council was purportedly for environmental reasons, but Hector reckoned it was for economy.

“Actually, no, not yet.”

I got up to fetch my coat from the rack by the top of the stairs. Hector’s face fell.

“I thought you were staying here tonight?”

“I am, but there’s something I have to do first. I can let you into the secret now, as it’ll all be out in the open tomorrow. Come with me and I’ll show you. It’s that yarnbombing business. Mrs Fortescue is decorating the conker tree on the green tonight with all the finished scarves. The streetlights going out is the cue for her to start, under the cover of darkness. You can have a sneak preview tonight.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How’s she going to do that? It’s a big tree. I didn’t have Mrs Fortescue down as a tree-climber.”

Picking up a Hector’s House promotional bookmark from the coffee table, he marked his place in his book and set it down on the arm of his chair before putting on his waxed jacket.

“I’m not sure. Let’s see if she needs a hand.”

We went downstairs and out on to the high street. Our eyes soon adjusted to the darkness, the high street illuminated only by the moon and stars, and by dim room lights behind the curtained windows of those not yet in bed. Occasionally a passing cat or hedgehog triggered a porch security lamp. The lights in The Bluebird flicked off as we passed. No lock-ins tonight.

As we passed the village shop, we could see a few furtive figures on the green, huge swathes of knitted scarves in their arms, with more piled on the park bench by the war memorial. As we got closer, it became clear that the largest figure, directing movements in a posh stage whisper, was Mrs Fortescue. The slightest, shortest figure, shinning up the tree trunk, was none other than Tommy, who has no sense of danger and a track record of scaling village landmarks. Last Christmas I spotted him peering down on to our nativity play rehearsal through the skylight, having unaccountably climbed on to the village hall roof.

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