Needles and Pearls

by Gil McNeil

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The warm and witty sequel to The Beach Street Knitting Society and Yarn Club Slip one . . . Two weddings and a year after her husband's funeral, Jo Mackenzie is finally starting to get the hang of being a single parent. The boys are thriving, the yarn shop is doing well--thanks to Jo's improvements--and she's just about keeping her head above water. Knit two together . . . But a man from Jo's past and a new romance with the hunky local carpenter come along and make life a whole lot more interesting. Cast off . . . Can Jo cope when things get really complicated? Because if knitting really does keep you sane when life starts to unravel, Jo's going to need much bigger needles.

Release date: May 11, 2010

Publisher: Hachette Books

Print pages: 432

Sample

February

It’s half past seven on Sunday morning and I’m sitting in the kitchen knitting a pale pink rabbit and trying to work out what to wear today. All those programs where women with tired hair and baggy trousers emerge a small fortune later with a new bob and a fully coordinated wardrobe never seem to give you tips about what you’re meant to wear when you visit your husband’s grave on the first anniversary of the funeral. Especially when you’ve got to combine it with lunch with Elizabeth, the artist formerly known as your mother-in-law, who’ll definitely be expecting something smart, possibly in the little-black-suit department, or maybe navy, at a pinch. And since I haven’t got a black suit, or a navy one, come to that, I think I might be in trouble.

Perhaps if I’d actually got some sleep last night things wouldn’t feel quite so overwhelming, but the sound of the wind and the waves kept me awake, which is one of the disadvantages of living by the seaside; it’s lovely in summer, all beach huts and day-trippers coming into the shop when it starts to drizzle, but I’m starting to realize that winter can be rather hard going. It’s all freezing mists and gales, and when there’s a storm down here, you really know about it. Maybe if the house wasn’t ten minutes from the beach I might not have quite so many dreams where I’m shipwrecked and trying to keep two small boys afloat.

I finally managed to drop off around two, and was promptly woken by Archie shuffling in to let me know he’d had his space-monster dream again. Which is something else that’s not quite as good as it sounds on the packet: how five-year-olds manage to combine being far too grown-up to wear vests now they’re at Big School with still needing night-lights and special blankets as soon as you’ve got the little buggers into their pajamas. Not that Archie really goes in for special blankets—unlike Jack, who’s seven but is still firmly attached to the fish blanket I knitted him in honor of his new seaside bedroom—but he’s still perfectly happy to wake his mother up in the middle of the bloody night to talk about monsters and the possibility of a light snack.

I’m writing another version of my never-ending Things I Must Do Today list, while the rain pours down the kitchen window in solid sheets. We might not be able to match Whitstable for stripy sweaters and artistically arranged fishing nets, but we can certainly match them for pouring rain. We do have an art gallery in the High Street now that goes in for smart window displays involving a large wooden bowl and a spotlight, so we’re starting to get there; and what’s more, we’ve got houses that normal people can afford, and a rickety pier and newly painted beach huts that don’t get sold in auctions for more money than most people paid for their first house. Gran’s been renting hers for years, which reminds me, that’s something else to add to my list: I need to take another towel down next time we go to the beach; we took Trevor the annoying Wonder Dog for a walk yesterday, and Archie ended up in the sea again.

I’m making a pot of tea when Archie comes downstairs, with his hair sticking up in little tufts, wearing his pajamas, and the belt from his dressing gown, but no actual dressing gown.

“It’s no good just wearing the belt, you know, love. You’ll get cold.”

“No I won’t. I like it like this, it’s my rope, for if I need to climb things. And I’m not having Shreddies for my breakfast. I want a sausage, just sausage. I don’t have to have Shreddies because it’s the weekend. At the weekend you can say what you want and you just have it.”

How lovely; I think I’ll order eggs Benedict and a glass of champagne. Or maybe a nice bit of smoked haddock.

I’m rather enjoying my Fantasy Breakfast moment while Archie looks in the fridge and starts tutting. “We haven’t got no sausage.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

“Because you said you hated sausages when we had them for supper last week.”

He tuts again. “I was only joking.”

Jack wanders in, looking grumpy. “I don’t want sausages. I want jumbled-up eggs.”

Apparently I am now running some kind of junior bed-and-breakfast operation. Perhaps I should buy a small pad and a pencil.

“Well, since we haven’t got any sausages, what about lovely scrambled eggs, Archie, before we get ready to drive to Granny’s?”

“Yuck. And anyway last time you made them you put stupid cheese in and they tasted absolutely horrible.”

“Well, it’s Shreddies or scrambled eggs. That’s it. So make your mind up.”

He sighs, while Jack stands in the doorway looking like he’s still half asleep.

“Did Daddy like cheese in his scrambled eggs?”

Bugger. There’s been a lot less of the Did My Lovely Daddy Like This? lately, but I suppose it was bound to resurface today.

“Yes, love, he did.”

“Well, I want mine with cheese then.”

Archie hesitates. “Well, I don’t. He liked them without cheese in too, didn’t he, Mum?”

“Yes, love.”

“And there’s no sausages?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Does he think I’m hiding a packet inside my dressing gown or something?

“Absolutely sure, Archie.”

“Well, I’ll have jumbled eggs, with toast. But not the eggs on the toast—toast on another plate.”

Christ.

Ellen calls while I’m washing up the breakfast things.

“You’ll never guess what. Ask me who’s calling.”

“I know who’s calling, Ellen. It’s you, Britain’s Favorite Broadcaster.”

“Yes, but ask me anyway. Just say, ‘Who is this?’ ”

“Who is this?”

“The future Mrs. Harry Williams. He asked me last night, when we were having dinner. On bended knee and everything—he’d even got the ring. Tiffany. Serious diamonds. The works. It was absolutely perfect.”

“Oh, Ellen, that’s brilliant.”

“I know, although why he couldn’t have done it on Valentine’s Day is beyond me. He said he wanted to wait until his leg was out of plaster, in case he got stuck kneeling down, but I think he just couldn’t cope with the hearts and flowers thing.”

“That sounds fair enough.”

“I’ve always had a crap time on Valentine’s Day, so it would have made up for all those years when I didn’t even get a card.”

“You always get cards, Ellen. For as long as I’ve known you you’ve always got loads.”

“Only from nutters who watch me on the news, not proper boys.”

“Well, now you’ve got a proper boy, and the ring to prove it.”

“I know. Christ. I still can’t really believe it.”

“Tell me everything. What did he say? What did you say? Everything.”

“I tried to play it cool, so I said I’d get back to him once I’d reviewed my options, but then the waiter brought the champagne over and I just caved. Who knew he’d turn out to be the future Mr. Malone? Isn’t life grand?”

“I suppose we’d better stop calling him Dirty Harry now. It’s not very bridal.”

“Oh, I don’t know: Ellen Malone, do you take Dirty Harry as your lawful . . . I quite like it.”

“What’s the ring like?”

“Fucking huge.”

“Clever boy.”

“So will you be my bridesmaid then?”

“Don’t thirty-eight-year-olds with two kids have to be matrons?”

“Bollocks to that—it’s too Carry On Night Nurse. I want you to be my bridesmaid; I’m thinking pink lace crinolines. With matching gloves.”

“Oh, God.”

“Or possibly Vera Wang.”

“That sounds more like it.”

“And the boys in kilts.”

“Harry, in a kilt?”

“No, you idiot, my godsons.”

“My Jack and Archie, in kilts?”

“Yes. What do you think?”

“I think it depends on how big the bribe’s going to be.”

“Huge.”

“No problem then, although we’d better not let them have daggers in their socks or it could get tricky. Have you told your mum and dad yet?”

“I’m building up to it. Actually, it’s going to be one of your main bridesmaid duties, stopping Mum trying to turn this into a family wedding. I hate most of them anyway, and they hate me. I just want people I really, truly like.”

“So no need for a big church then, since there’ll only be about six of us.”

“Exactly. Here, talk to Harry.”

“Morning, Jo.”

“Congratulations, Harry.”

“Thanks, darling, and you’ll do the bridesmaid thing, because I’m counting on you to calm her down.”

“How exactly do you think I’m going to pull that one off ?”

“Drugs? One of my uncles knows a bloke who can probably slip us some horse tranquilizers; that should slow her down a bit. You’ll have to do something or I’ll be forced to make a run for it.”

“Don’t you dare. Anyway, she’d find you.”

There’s a scuffling noise, and Ellen comes back on the line.

“Harry’s just fallen over.”

“Has he? How mysterious.”

“I don’t think his leg’s completely up to speed yet.”

“No, and it won’t be if you keep pushing the poor man over. He’s only just had the plaster off.”

“He tripped. Look, I’d better go, darling, he’s making toast and he always burns it.”

“Put a new toaster down on your wedding list then. A Harry-proof one.”

“Christ, I’d forgotten about the wedding list. God, the amount of money I’ve spent over the years on bloody lists. Brilliant: it’s finally payback time.”

“John Lewis do a good one, I think.”

“Please. I’m thinking Cath Kidston, the White Company. Actually, I wonder if Prada do a list—I bet they do—and I’m thinking registry office, like you did with Nick, so my mum doesn’t get the chance to cover the local church in horrible satin ribbon.”

“That might work, you know, like that man who wraps up whole mountains.”

“Yes, but Christo doesn’t dot mini-baskets of freesias everywhere, or make everyone wear carnation buttonholes. God, I wish I could see you. Why don’t you come up here for the day and Harry can limp round a museum with the boys while we start planning?”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got lunch with Elizabeth and Gerald.”

“Oh, Christ, I’d forgotten. Sorry, darling.”

“Do I have to wear black, do you think?”

“Of course not, sweetheart. Wear what you like.”

“She wanted us to go to the morning service at the church, but I said we couldn’t get there in time, so they’ll all be in their best Sunday outfits. James and Fiona and the girls will be there too. God, I bet they all have hats.”

“You could always wear your bobble hat.”

“So they look like they’re off to Ascot and I look like a tramp?”

“Just wear what you feel comfortable in.”

“You don’t think turning up in my pajamas will look a bit odd?”

“Not if you top it off with a woolly hat; very bohemian and deconstructed: Björk, with a hint of grieving widow. What about your black trousers, the ones you wear with your boots?”

“I’ve already tried them, but I can only get the zip done up if I lie on the floor. I think they must have shrunk.”

“Shrunk?”

“I think I may have been overdoing it slightly on the biscuits when I’m in the shop. And it’s bound to rain. Do you remember how much it rained at the funeral? I thought the vicar was going to fall in at one point, or Archie, and Christ knows how much therapy you’d need after falling headfirst into your dad’s grave. Quite a lot, is my guess.”

“The bastards would probably make you sign a direct-debit form before they let you in the door.”

“Do you think I should take flowers? The boys have written letters and drawn some pictures.”

“Sweet.”

“They spent hours on them. Jack’s done one of the new house, to show him where we’re living now, and Archie’s done one of Trevor, and a boat. But I haven’t got anything to take.”

“Darling, you should have reminded me. Look, I can drive down. What time are you leaving?”

“No, it’s fine, I’m just fussing. Flowers will be fine. I’ll get some at Sainsbury’s on the way, and you have a lovely day celebrating with Harry. I’ll call you when I’m back.”

“Sure?”

“Definitely.”

“But?”

“Nothing. It’s just I feel such a fraud. I should be the grieving widow, but I’m still so furious with him. I thought I’d be into the acceptance thing by now, or maybe even forgiveness, but I’m not. I mean I forgive him about the affair. It’s weird, but I’m really past that. Maybe my mini-moment in Venice with Daniel helped me with that one, sort of put everything into perspective, and stopped me feeling like a total reject.”

“I’m sure it did, darling.”

“But I still can’t forgive him for planning to leave the boys. I’m nowhere near closure on that one. Nowhere near.”

“Of course you’re not. Why would you be? Christ, he finally gets promoted and you think you’re off to a new life as the Wife of the Foreign Correspondent, but it turns out he’s having an affair and wants a divorce, and the night he tells you he manages to kill himself in a car crash. Why would you have closure on something like that? It’ll take years.”

“Thanks, that’s very encouraging.”

“Darling, you’re doing great, fantastic, actually. Instead of going under you’ve got on with it, with all the debts and the second bloody mortgage he didn’t even bother to tell you about. You’ve sold up and moved to the back of bloody beyond so you can work in your gran’s wool shop, and before you say it, yes, I know it’s your shop now, and you’ve made a brilliant job of it and you’re new best friends with the Diva and everything. Official knitting coach to Amazing Grace, but still. I’d be fucking furious with him. In fact it’s a good job he crashed that car because I’d have killed him myself if I’d got my hands on him. Bastard.”

That’s one of the best things about Ellen: she’s so brilliantly partisan. She never sees both sides of the argument, or tells you to calm down and think about it from someone else’s point of view. And she was so great last year, with the funeral and everything. Christ knows how I’d have got through it without her.

“I know, Ellen, but it was partly my fault, you know.”

“Oh, please, not the guilt-trip thing again. How could it possibly have been your fault?”

“I should have known, about the money. I should have worked it out. And if I’d been less wrapped up in the boys, maybe I would have noticed how bored he was getting. When I think about it, I could see he was unraveling, but I tried to ignore it. He got so furious when I tried to talk to him about it, so I left it.”

“And I suppose it was your fault he was shagging the teenage UN worker, was it?”

“She was twenty-six, Ellen.”

“Twenty-six, sixteen, makes no difference, just better clothes. Now pull yourself together, darling. He fucked up, big time. And it wasn’t your fault, but you’re left picking up the pieces. It’s bollocks whichever way you look at it.”

“I suppose so. Although I love living here now.”

“I know you do, Pollyanna. You’ve always been good at seeing the bright side . . . what’s that lemon thing again?”

“If life deals you lemons, you just make lemonade.”

“Christ.”

We both start to giggle.

“What a load of rubbish—it sounds just like something your Diva would say, like her line about how people can only turn you over if you let them; it’s all in your karma.”

“Yes, but I think there’s some truth in that, you know.”

“Oh, definitely. It’s very good karma if you’re incredibly rich and freakishly thin and your last three movies were hits. Not quite so easy if you’re working in Burger King and the onion rings have just got flame-grilled into oblivion.”

“True.”

“How is our Amazing Grace, by the way? Is motherhood suiting her?”

“Very much, last time I saw her. And she’s looking even more fabulous than before she had the baby, sort of glowing. I know it sounds like rubbish, but she really is. And the baby’s gorgeous. I’m doing a new-baby window display for the shop; I’ve been knitting baby things for days now. It’s been a bit weird—it reminds me of knitting when I was pregnant with Archie, which hasn’t exactly helped.”

“You’ll be fine today, you’ll see. Now are you sure you don’t want me to come down?”

“Sure. You’re right. It’ll be fine, and at least there’s been some good news today.”

“What?”

“My best friend’s getting married, and I’ll be in peach Vera Wang with gloves and a bobble hat.”

“Call me when you get home, promise?”

“Yes.”

“And if Elizabeth gets too annoying, just hit her. Pretend you’ve gone into widow hysterics and deck the old bag. You’ll feel so much better, trust me.”

“I must just try that.”

“Hurrah. God, I really wish I was coming down now.”

They’re just getting back from church when we arrive, and Elizabeth is having a light bicker in the kitchen with Fiona about how long the joint needs to rest before Gerald can start carving. It’s still pouring with rain, which doesn’t bode well for our graveside moment after lunch, and Gerald hands me a rather epic sherry; for some reason best known to himself he seems to think I’m likely to start kicking up if I don’t have a full glass in my hand at all times, possibly because Nick’s usual tactic for getting through a Sunday lunch with his parents was to get completely plastered. Which is a perfectly sensible plan if you’re not the person who has to drive home, and keep two small boys amused in a house full of china figurines and very pale carpet. Christ, this is going to be a long afternoon.

Fiona, wearing her floral pinny, has found a documentary about chimpanzees for the children to watch, and she settles them on the sofa for a quiet ten minutes before lunch.

“Now not too loud, girls, because Daddy’s reading his paper.”

I feel like I’ve been catapulted back in time into the middle of a 1950s Bisto commercial.

Lottie and Beth look rather anxiously toward James, who’s knocking back the whiskey while he reads the papers and makes Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells noises whenever he comes across anything he doesn’t approve of.

“Are there any cartoons?” Archie’s doing his Best Smile.

“No, Archie, but I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. We love wildlife programs, don’t we, girls?”

Lottie and Beth nod, although Lottie doesn’t look particularly enthusiastic.

“I do try to ration cartoons, don’t you, Jo? Some of them are so violent, aren’t they? Awful. Now I must pop into the kitchen and see if Elizabeth needs a hand.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She gives me the kind of look you’d give a teenager who’s just offered to rewire your house. My domestic skills have always been awarded nil points by Fiona and Elizabeth; I just don’t think I pipe enough rosettes on things to meet their exacting standards.

“It’s all under control. You just sit and have a rest after your drive.”

James makes a choking noise and reads us a few lines from his paper about a woman who’s suing her bosses for millions for harassment. “Just because they took a client to a club where she didn’t feel comfortable. Dear God, what is this country coming to?”

James is in middle management in financial services, and slightly to the right of Attila the Hun.

Fiona tries a little laugh, which sounds rather nervous and high-pitched. “Now, darling, don’t let’s get started on politics.”

Oh, dear. I just can’t resist.

“What sort of club was it, James?”

He looks at the paper and reddens slightly. “Some sort of dancing one.”

“Lap dancing, by any chance?”

“Possibly, but for heaven’s sake, horses for courses and all that. Nothing to go to the lawyer’s about—it’s only a bit of fun.”

“So if all your bosses were women, and they took you to a club where the boys were dancing about in leather trousers, with a finale that involved lots of baby oil, you wouldn’t mind?”

Fiona’s gone rather pale and tries another little laugh.

James gives her an irritable look.

“I think women should realize that it’s a big, tough world out there, and we all have to do things we don’t particularly enjoy. I had to take a load of Japanese clients to dinner a few weeks ago, sitting cross-legged on the floor for hours, but you don’t see me suing anybody.”

“And he had terrible trouble with his knees the next day, didn’t you, darling?”

He turns to glare at her, as Archie wanders over for a cuddle.

“What’s lap dancing, Mum?”

“A rather sad sort of dancing, love.”

“Do they do it at discos?”

“Not really.”

“We have discos at our school.”

“I know, love.”

Please don’t let him ask me for lap-dancing tips. I’m not really sure it’s what the PTA had in mind.

“I can do all sorts of dancing. Sometimes I go round and round until I get dizzy.”

“I know. But don’t show us now, all right? You might break something.”

He giggles, and Fiona looks relieved to be back on safe territory. “I meant to tell you, Jo. The girls are doing so well at their ballet classes, Beth was chosen to do one of the solos in the last concert, actually, weren’t you, darling?”

Beth simpers and nods.

Lottie rolls her eyes. “And I was a toadstool.”

“Were you? That sounds like fun.”

She grins. “I’ll show you, if you like, Aunty Jo, but you’ll have to take your boots off.”

Fiona doesn’t seem keen.

“Not now, darling. Lunch is nearly ready.”

Archie sighs. “I’d like to be a toadstool. Can you show me too?”

Beth makes a sniggering noise. “Toadstools are only for people who aren’t very good at ballet. I was a deer. I can show you, if you like, Jack.”

Jack looks rather panicked. “A what?”

“A deer. Like in Bambi.”

Archie’s delighted. “Yes. And then we can shoot him.”

After a last-minute crisis with the Yorkshires, which seem perfectly fine to me but apparently haven’t risen properly, Elizabeth calls us in to lunch, looking rather tense. Gerald’s swaying slightly as he carves the joint: perhaps that second sherry wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“Would you like horseradish, Jo?”

“Thank you.”

Elizabeth passes me a small china jug. “I do think proper horseradish is so much nicer than those terrible jars, don’t you? Fiona made this. It’s one of our Women’s Institute recipes.”

“Lovely.”

Fiona smiles. “It’s ever so easy really.”

“I don’t like horseradished.” Jack’s looking rather anxious; he’s already had two Brussels sprouts launched onto his plate against his will.

“You don’t have to have any if you don’t want it. Just eat up your lovely carrots. And try a sprout, love; you might like them now. But if not, just leave them, okay? Nobody will mind as long as you try a mouthful.”

Actually, Elizabeth will mind, since she’s definitely from the You Have to Eat Whatever Is Put on Your Plate school of thought, but I don’t really go in for force-feeding children, not least because it’s totally counterproductive.

“Christ almighty.”

We all turn to look at James, who’s started coughing.

“Horseradish. Bit strong.” His eyes are watering.

We all taste our horseradish, and then wish we hadn’t. Bloody hell, the tip of my tongue’s gone completely numb.

Fiona’s looking totally stricken. “I’m sure I followed the recipe.”

Gerald coughs and pours himself some more wine.

Time to change the subject, I think.

“The beef is delicious, Elizabeth. Archie, don’t lean back on your chair like that, or you’ll tip over.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Archie.”

“I never tip over. Jake Palmer fell right off his chair at school when we were having our lunch, and he spilled his water. But I never do.”

“Archie, just sit properly, please. Do you want your meat cut up?”

He gives me an outraged look. “No, I do not. I’m not a baby.”

“Well, eat properly then, please.”

Elizabeth smiles at him encouragingly. “There’s jelly and ice cream for boys who eat up all their lunch. Nice clean plates, that’s what Granny likes to see.”

I think she’s trying to be helpful.

Archie looks at her. “And girls too?”

“Sorry, dear?”

“And Beth and Lottie can have ice cream, if they eat up?”

“Yes, dear.”

He looks at his plate. “And can you just have ice cream, if you don’t eat all of it?”

Gerald laughs. “Good point, my boy, excellent. Negotiate, that’s the thing. Now then, who’s for more wine?”

“Nicholas loved jelly and ice cream when he was little. It was his favorite pudding.” Elizabeth is looking tearful now, and I don’t think it’s just the horseradish.

Oh, God, here we go.

“Granny, did you know when monkeys want to do sex they wee on all the trees? It was on our program.”

Elizabeth chokes slightly, and Lottie starts to giggle.

“Archie, I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to talk about at lunch.”

“Monkeys don’t know it’s not nice.”

“Archie.”

He sighs. “I don’t even like jelly.”

By the time we’re trudging through the field toward the church, I’m feeling very close to slapping someone, most probably myself for landing us with a family escort for what should be a quiet moment for the boys. Bloody hell. Elizabeth is seriously sulking now because Gerald said “bugger” after his fourth glass of wine, and she’s been trying to get me to deliver Grace Harrison as her VIP guest at the next Golf Club dinner, and I’ve had to tell her that I think it’s a bit of a long shot. Fiona’s still trying to recover from the horseradish debacle, and James is having a long conversation about golf, mainly with himself. Everywhere is still soaking, and my boots keep sinking into the grass, but at least it’s finally stopped raining as we climb over the stile and walk into the churchyard.

Jack’s holding the letters and pictures in a plastic bag, and he starts to go rather pale as we get a few yards away from Nick’s grave. There are yellow tulips in the black marble vase at the bottom of the headstone, and a small bunch of roses.

Fiona coughs, very quietly. “The roses are from the girls. We put them there earlier.”

I nod. I’m not sure I can actually speak just yet; it’s such a shock, seeing the grave again. Jack puts his hand in mine and we move forward and I bend slightly to put my flowers down, but they don’t look right in their cellophane wrapping—it’s like Interflora have just made a special delivery or something—so I kneel to take them out of the wrapper, getting wet knees in the process. Jack and Archie are now standing on either side of me. They seem much smaller and quieter than usual.

“There, that’s better. You can put your letters on top of the flowers now if you’d like to, and your lovely pictures.”

They put their folded-up letters and pictures down very carefully as Elizabeth walks toward us and starts rearranging the tulips. “Shall we pop into church now and say a little prayer?”

“I think we’d like to just stand here quietly for a minute, if that’s okay. You go ahead, though.”

Fiona and James head off toward the church with the girls and Gerald, while Elizabeth hesitates. “I thought a prayer might be nice. Wouldn’t you like to say a prayer for Daddy, Jack?”

Jack’s starting to look tearful now. Bloody woman.

“Elizabeth, I think we’d like a moment on our own, if that’s all right with you.”

In other words, bugger off, you old bag.

I put my arm around Jack, and we walk toward the wooden seat under the tree in the corner of the churchyard.

“It’s wet, Mum.”

“I know, love, but it doesn’t matter, we’ve got our coats on. Let’s sit down and have a cuddle.”

He smil. . .